An Eochair

Introduction to An Eochair

Sometimes the most meaningful things are not the ones that call out loudest – they are the ones half-hidden in mud and dust, waiting for someone to stop, kneel down, and look closely.

This poem grew from such a moment: finding an old, rusted key lying where the ruts meet the grass. I did not bring birdsong, or wind, or the sound of running water to this piece – because this moment did not need them. Instead I cleared the space around it, so we might sit with the weight of iron, the mark of time, and the quiet question of all the hands that held it long before ours.We often think a key exists only to open something, but what of the ones whose locks are gone, whose doors have crumbled away? They do not fail for lying unused. They carry their own worth, even if they never turn again.

Here Irish words rest alongside English as naturally as the stone rests by the wall – An Eochair, Dearg, Cloch, Fanann an boladh – part of the land this key has known all its life. And at the end, what stays with us is not what it unlocked, but what it leaves behind: that faint, clinging sense that some things do not need to be explained to be true.

As you read, I invite you to pause, as I did – and remember :

The key does not unlock the poem. The poem unlocks the key.

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Glossary of Irish Words used:

An Eochair (on oh-kher) The Key

Dearg (Dyar-ug) Red / rust red

Cloch (klokh) Stone

Fanann an Boladh (Fon-awn on BOL-uh) The smell lingers

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An Eochair





It lay half sunk in mud and trodden dust,
too heavy for its size, all dearg-brown with rust
and flaked thick along its worn old face - 
not one bright edge had known the sun or air to grace.



I turned it over; dirt crumbled to dry dearg dust
that stuck where my palms rested - 
staining every crease, every line, 
its blunted wards, its teeth worn fine -
what gate, what chest, did it once address?




I carried it down to the stream’s gentle flow,
dipped it deep – and watched the rust run slow,
bleed bright red through clear cold water, 
spread thin like old secrets where the current led.
It smelled of iron turned to earth, damp rot,
of something shut away and long forgotten.



I turned it  slow, felt every worn notch tell
of hands that closed around it, hard and well - 
cold hands, warm hands, young and old the same,
who kept the secrets locked behind a name.



I set it on a cloch beside the wall - 
it need not turn a lock or tell its tale at all.
I traced the rust like maps on faded ground,
what shelter did it guard? What warmth did it surround?
What last thing passed through, then turned away - 
and left it  here to wait for rain and clay?



I washed long in the stream until the water ran clean,
scrubbed every crease, let the current lean.
Yet still hours later, deep in my own skin,
that sharp old smell of rust and earth clings in.
Fanann an boladh.






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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