This has been a Poem that I have wanted to compose for the longest time. But also I have never revealed exactly where I grew up and still call home. Even though I now live in the town of Ballincollig on the outer limits of Cork city. I have eventually decided to reveal where I come from and what I call home. This is where I credit as being the deep rooted cause for my love of Composing poetry. The next short introduction is all that I will place before the Poem.
This poem is rooted in the place I was born and raised. It is based in and around the town of Charleville. This town is on the edge of the Ballyhoura Hills in North Cork, in the south of Ireland. I spent much of my childhood and youth in and around those fields and slopes. This land leaves a quiet but lasting mark.
Charleville is also the resting place of Seán Clárach Mac Domhnaill 1691–1754. For more on this poet, see this link. This poet inspired me to learn the Irish language. I wanted to read his works more deeply.
I now live on the outskirts of Cork city, far from that same stillness. Yet, the pull of those hills has never left me. This piece is an effort to honour that connection. It refers to both the landscape itself and the deeper sense of belonging it continues to hold over me. The Poem itself highlights where my heart lays and what drives my thoughts homewards.
((I not find a photo that shows what I wished and settled for this. All credit to AI for this image.))
The Land That Knows Me
At night the old cold city lights can’t hide
What restless eyes have wandered from inside -
Far from the busy, bustling streets of men,
Where sun-bright rays defy the night again.
Dream-wings bear me where my longing fills,
To breathe once more beneath those sky-held hills;
To taste the warmth of winds that softly stray,
And walk the roads where heart and home still lay.
Beneath the sharp neon, dull senses fade,
Far from the joy the quiet, fiery fields made;
Soft southern lights fall gentle, full of grace,
While seekers turn their steps to that dear place.
Amid the rolling hills of vibrant green,
The fairest haven I have ever seen;
By moss-grown paths I wander, hearing call -
The land that bore me knows me, keeps it all.
There rest I would, within that ancient still,
Where time itself bends softly to the hill;
Where root and wind and wandering spirit stay -
And I, at last, am home, and home I’ll stay.
And where the poet rests in hallowed ground,
His Gaelic song still lifts the air around,
Through hill and heather, carried wild and free -
By that old land that knows, and carries me.
Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald
All Rights Reserved
Thank you for coming with me on my little journey, that is composing or writing poetry. Life is a journey we all walk on. My journey in creating poetry is a journey of its own. Which I still learn much on as I write.
At times I experiment on techniques or ways to improve my poetry. Getting feedback is always most welcome for efforts like these.
When I write poetry, some readers will be offended with something within the poetry. I do not write to offend, But such are written for reasons I outline in the posts. Often I miss typos and mistakes when publishing each poem. I correct the moment I discover such mistakes.
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