The Angel of the Bog
by John O’ Donohue
The angel of the bog mourns in the wind
That loiters all over these black meadows.
Remember how it chose branches to strum
From the orchestra of trees that stood here;
How at twilight a chorus of birds came
To silence in nests of darkening air.
Raindrops filter through leaves, silver the air,
Wash off the film of dust to release nets
Of fragrance on which the wind can sweeten
Before expiring among the debris
That brightens each year with fallen colour
Before the weight of winter seals the ground.
The dark eyes of the angel of the bog
Never open now when dawn comes to dress
The famished grass with splendid veils of red,
Amber, white, as if its soul were urgent
And young with possibility and dreams
That a vanished life might become visible.
You can find this poem in Conamara Blues.