Where the Lane Grows Quiet

Introduction to “Where the Lane Grows Quiet”

Some roads are made to hurry along, to get you from one place to another as fast as you can go. But a bóithrín – a small lane, a boreen – is made for slowing down. It asks you to set aside your rush, to notice the dust in sunlight, the scent rising from the damp earth, and the quiet life that goes on all around, unhurried and unseen.

This poem came from walking those lanes, and from learning to see them with new eyes. It weaves in the old Irish names for things I find there. –

Words that carry more than just a meaning, that carry the memory of everyone who walked here before me. It is about the stillness that is never empty, and the beauty that waits when you stop to listen.

Personally speaking, “I am still learning, and still growing. That is how life should be. If, in doing so, I can honour those who walked this path before me while remaining true to my own voice, then I will have done enough.”

Glossary

Bóithrín / BOH-reen / small lane / boreen

Fraoch / FROOK / heather

Lus an mhionta / LUSS un MEEN-tah/ wild mint

Cloch / KLOKH/ Stone / stone wall

Ciúnas / KOO-nas/ stillness, quiet that holds life.

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Where the Lane Grows Quiet





The lane begins where the road runs thin -
no painted line, no rush, no din,
just ruts that hold the rain of weeks gone by,
and dust that rises soft when breezes sigh.


Fraoch spills purple over the low ditch bank,
Lus an Mhionta breathes sharp
where damp ground lingers;
old cloch walls stand shoulder-high and warm,
soaking up the sun through every long, still morn.


Up in the hawthorn, birds pause to rest -
a wren's quick trill, a blackbird's mellow song;
some tuck their nests deep in the tangled hedge,
safe from the wind,
hidden from the world.



From a farm far off, a dog barks deep and slow,
not fierce,
only letting the lane know:
"I watch these fields,
this lane,
this place."
Then silence settles,
soft as before.
And sometimes,
slipping lightly along the wall,
a tabby moves -
silent,
lean,
sun-warmed;
paws brushing thistle,
eyes half-closed,
master of every shadow.


Here sound is soft -
the buzz of a single bee,
a leaf at rest,
the wind that brushes cheek and brow,
carrying scents no map could ever tell.



If rain comes,
it falls not in sheets but in mist,
beading on grass,
on thorn,
on wrist.
The lane drinks deep,
turns dark and rich,
holding the story
of every passing step.
It does not shout.
It waits.
It stays,
worn smooth by boots,
by carts,
by days.
Ciúnas lives here -
not empty,
but full;
shared by bird and beast,
and those who choose
to walk slowly.






Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald 
All Rights Reserved 

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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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