Having enjoyed putting the last poem together and especially The Hybrid Style I composed that poem in, I wanted to work on a little more. This was when it took a route of its own, or so it seems with me and my writings.
Introduction
Some memories lie quiet in the mind for years, almost forgotten, until something brings them back as clear and bright as the day they happened. This poem grew from just such a memory – one long night, many years ago, walking home along the bog road with a good friend, now long out of touch and gone his own way.
What began as a simple recollection of a fifteen-mile journey under the stars turned into something deeper. As I wrote, I realised the road itself was never just a path to travel; it felt alive, rising and falling like the land itself, winding beside a river that kept it company all the way. That is where the heart of this piece came from: the thought that unlike other roads which simply take you from one place to another, this old bog road does not go—it flows, slow and steady, carrying with it the stories, the silence, and the quiet magic of the countryside it crosses.
There is one line here that holds a special place for me. It was written long ago, when I was young, in a poem I lost many years back. When I was putting this piece together, that line came back to me, and I knew instantly it belonged here—it fits so perfectly it feels as if it was always meant to wait for this moment.
Here is a journey through darkness and dew, through quiet sounds and wide, open spaces; a walk shared between two young lads, and a memory that still flows on, just like that road.
(For readers unfamiliar with the Irish countryside)
A bog is a wide, soft, water‑filled landscape built from thousands of years of accumulated plant matter — dark, spongy, and slow‑changing, a signature feature of rural Ireland, including County Cork. A bog road is no smooth modern highway: it is a narrow, uneven, rutted, winding track of stone or packed earth that curves through open moor and peatland, far from towns and streetlights. Before regular buses or lifts were available, walking long distances — here fifteen miles home from music and dance — was ordinary, and the journey became part of the memory itself.
Under a faint moon and cold starlight, frost catches the grass; darkness wraps hedges, hills and river together. The road does not run straight or flat — it rises and falls “like some slow breathing”, and the poem’s central idea turns it into something alive: “It does not go – it flows along”. In this quiet, open world, sound matters more than sight: a dog barking across the lea, unseen cattle breathing mist by the reeds, distant headlights bending through dark then vanishing. It moves at a rhythm unlike the speed and brightness of city life — yet speaks to everyone of friendship, endurance, and how some journeys hold stories rather than hurry past them.
Glossary
- Bog: Ancient, water‑logged peat‑land, soft and dark, typical of Ireland.
- Moor: Wide, wild, open stretch of rough, treeless ground.
- Lea: Old‑fashioned term for open grassland or meadow.
- Rutted: Worn into deep, uneven grooves — bumpy underfoot.
- Throng: Usually a crowd; here, a thick, layered sound.
My prayer is that you will Enjoy This Poem
The Bog Road Flows
We left the hall where music played,
Where laughter rang and beer was laid,
With dancing feet and spirits high,
We stepped beneath the starry sky.
But lifts were none, and roads were long,
So we set forth with steady song,
Fifteen miles of dark and dew,
Between the place we knew and grew.
The road runs rough, a wave and swell,
Where boggy ground dips low and well.
Not straight, not still, but rising, falling,
Like some slow breathing, softly calling.
It does not go – it flows along,
Beside the river’s soft, low throng.
No lamps to light the lonely way,
Just stars that shine so cold and grey;
The moon hangs thin, a pale, faint glow,
That turns the grass to frost below.
Dark wraps the fields from hedge to hill,
And quiet holds the land so still -
Till sound breaks through the hush profound,
To mark the life still moving round.
A lone dog barks with deep, sharp tone,
Guarding the gate, the hearth, the stone;
His voice rolls far across the lea,
A warning to the likes of us.
And from the ditch where reeds grow tall,
Where river breezes rise and fall,
Come rustle, huff, and soft low sound -
The cows unseen, upon the ground,
Breathing mist along the bank,
Where willows lean and waters run.
Now and then a motor’s glow
Would bend the dark and come and go;
We stepped aside to let them pass –
No hand outstretched, no call, no glass.
They sped along the smoother track,
And left us to the night and black.
Two lads step slow on rutted stone,
With empty miles and no one known;
Our breath hangs white, our feet grow sore,
As step by step we walk the moor.
The road flows on, the river too,
Both winding long, both wild and true –
They do not rush, they do not flee,
But hold the tales of you and me.
And though the night was cold and long,
And silence stretched where shadows throng,
That road still holds its gentle sway –
It does not go, it flows always.
Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald
All Rights Reserved
Note:
Thank you for joining me on this journey of writing and discovery. Poetry, for me, is a continuous learning process. A way of finding my own voice and writing style and exploring the beauty of words.
I also write from the heart and never with the intention to cause offence. However, if anything I write ever causes discomfort, please know it is never my purpose. I am only human and occasionally typos or small errors may slip through; I do my best to correct them as soon as they are found.
Support My Work
Running this blog involves time and costs. If you enjoy my writing and would like to help keep this space alive, there are two simple ways you can support me:
Click on the advertisements, Every click helps, no matter how small and goes a long way towards covering expenses.
Buy Me A Coffee
If you feel inclined, you can leave a small donation via the link below. It helps with the upkeep of the site and it is always greatly appreciated.
Please know there is absolutely no obligation. Your readership and support means the world to me already.
With Gratitude,
Pat Fitzgerald
patman4u.com 
One thought on “The Bog Road Flows”