A Note Before We Walk
There is a kind of magic found only on a narrow boreen – that quiet, unhurried path winding through the countryside, far from the noise of roads and clocks. When you step onto it at a slow, steady pace, time softens. The sun filters differently through the hedges, every birdcall sounds clearer, even the hum of insects feels like part of the music.
Here the world reveals itself in small, perfect details: the warmth of the air, the low murmur of cattle beyond the hedge, the old gate leaning as though it has stood there simply to offer you rest. As you walk, you realise you are not the first to thread this ground – you follow footsteps worn deep by generations before you. It is here, in this slow, sensory stroll, that I find what it means to inherit a place, and to bloom in my own good time.
Poetry is a craft that many love for the art it is. And For me, Poetry is a craft that has taken me on a journey of discovering those who walked this path before I was. Therefore I am just another who walks this path that is poetry.
Glossary
Cosán (koh-sawn) — a narrow path or quiet country track.
Dúchas (DOO-khas) — heritage, birthright, and the deep sense of belonging to land, place, and people.
Fás mall (fahss mahl) — to grow slowly; to ripen and flourish in one’s own good time.
Good Things Grow Slowly
I take the cosán, narrow and green,
where hedges close like arms around me -
no rush, no hurry, just the slow, sure tread
of feet that follow where old steps have led.
Sun slants through leaves in bars of gold and shade,
dappling the ruts where rain once found its way;
birds pour their song from every thicket's height,
a bright, full hymn to this warm afternoon light.
Over the hawthorn cattle low and breathe,
their soft, deep murmur drifting through the leaves;
butterflies drift like petals on the air,
while midges dance where warm currents stir.
The heat wraps round me, heavy, soft and slow -
it seeps through bone and sets the blood to flow;
until I pause, breath easy, by a gate
that leans as though it, too, has learned to wait.
Resting my arms upon its weathered wood,
I feel what no young rush has understood:
this path was worn by many before me -
by farmer, poet, child, and wanderer free.
Dúchas is not a name, nor land, nor stone -
it is the rhythm written in the bone;
the way the light falls, how the river bends,
the language waking where the silence ends.
I came late to this road, late to the pen,
late to learn the tongue that speaks the glen -
but fás mall is the way the good things grow:
deep roots first, before the flowers can show.
So here I stand, both receiver and giver,
breathing the same air that made the old songs live;
each step I take leaves one more quiet trace -
my own small part in this long, sacred place.
Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald
All Rights Reserved
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.
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Pat Fitzgerald
patman4u.com 