Between Hedge and Sky

When reading and studying works of Thomas Kinsella ( a Great Irish Poet) , I was curious and amazed at his use of a bird to shift between style of poetry. In Kinsella’s Poetry he shifted from a strict Rhyming Style into a different style that best reflected his views and flow in poetry.

This was where I decided to try this in a manner of speaking. But rather than using a blackbird or Raven or Crow which Kinsella used, I wanted to use something else, This is where This Poem came into being. And my use of a bird I love and find comfort watching in my backgarden at home. The Sparrow.

Authors Note:

Between the familiar shelter of what we know, and the wide open sky of what we might become. This piece weaves the landscape of Cork and Ireland with the quiet journey of memory, healing and self-discovery.

For some this self discovery, may be in composing poetry or writing a novel. Or for others it may be in politics or in any other business that this life offers. Or for others still, that may be with religion. Do not fear that step, but rather fly into that step and enjoy it. Not forgetting where you came from, like the sparrow in todays poem, it knows where its nest is and its not a cage that imprisons it.

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Between Hedge and Sky 





 
I was born on this emerald isle,
Where scholars and saints walked mile on mile;
where stone holds story, sod holds song,
and old ways linger, quiet and strong.



Beneath wide skies and sheltered glen,
words wove through wind and rain and fen;
each stream that bends, each hill that leans,
keeps time in its own quiet scenes.



Where bramble thickets twist and climb,
and hawthorn breathes the scent of time;
the hedge is home, the bank is bed -
where small lives live, and words are bred.



A sparrow slips from its hedgerow nest,
no set path, no rule, no measured rest.
One flick of wing, and the rhyme lets go…



And now the thoughts can wander free,
no fixed beat, no bound to keep,
only what the land speaks deep
into bone and breath.


Roots do not grow in straight lines;
memory does not march to a clock’s designs.
It darts, it pauses, it turns aside -
just like this bird, that dares to ride
leaving the safe frame of the hedge
to fly where it will,
to be exactly what it is.



And still it knows the hedge.
Not as a cage,
but as a beginning.


The sky is wider than the thorn,
yet both belong to the sparrow born.
And when it settles for the night,
it carries the open air within its flight.







Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald 
All Rights Reserved 

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