Introduction to An Bóithrín

An Bóithrín began as a quiet challenge: to find poetry in one small, overlooked thing lying half hidden on an old path — something worn, ordinary, full of unwritten stories.

What grew from that is not rhymed or formal — it chose free verse because this kind of landscape does not hurry or count beats. It breathes in walking rhythm, in wind, in high grass, in the care we give old things we do not fully know. I kept the title An Bóithrín (Pronounced: “un boh-reen”) – The old Country Lane — because the word itself carries the very feel of this place: rooted, familiar, unrushed.

In this journey, there was no need to guess names or histories. The wood, smoothed by rain, sun , and hands long gone, only needed to be seen — cleaned, honoured, and returned. This poem is about attentiveness — not knowing: the quiet dignity of wandering sowly, noticing deeply, and leaving things where they belong, still part of the land, sky, and silence.

After many edits, cuts, and re-shapings — walking slowly through every word — it stands simply: a poem about an old path, a found piece of wood, and the quiet connection between what is lost, what is found, and what remains.

As a poet and one who believes in learning as I write, coming upon a challenge like this , certainly, posed a challenge for me in more than one way. It became a challenge in which I had to face discovering a style this poem worked best in and also what worked in the poem verses what was there at one point.

Muddy country path beside a wooden fence beneath a large tree — A narrow country lane winds through lush greenery beneath a spreading oak tree, with sheep-dotted hills beyond.

An Bóithrín

I turn down the old bóithrín once more —

The grass stands higher than it once did,
rippling beneath the passing breath,
while twisted briars shake and sigh.

Bird calls ride lightly on the air,
carried, then gone —

faint and far,
a sweet note fading into distance.

Near the bend where grasses lean,
they part —

as if to show —

and there it is,

half-buried in earth —
a piece of wood worn smooth by time.

I do not rush,

I kneel.

I brush the loose earth from it.

Curves emerge,

with lines of grain —
deep and winding, weathered by rain,
worn by seasons, sun and time,
a pattern softened smooth.

I lift it gently from its resting place,

carry it down to the stream nearby,

and wash the mud away.

The water runs clear over worn wood —
the grain shines deeper still,
every curve, every quiet mark
revealed, but still unread.

I turn it in my hands.

I wonder who held it before me —

what work it did,

what hands it knew,
what days it saw,

what years wore through.

I do not know.

I cannot say.
And that is enough.

So when the light begins to fade,
I carry it back to the bend in the bóithrín,
lay it upon a flat warm stone.

Close to where the wind first showed it to me —
resting still beneath the grass,
beneath the sky,

beneath the trees —
part of the land,

part of the air,
waiting, perhaps,

for wind again,
or for another wanderer,
or simply for the quiet dark.

I leave it there.

Quote of the Week:

Every landscape is a poem. Some simply take longer to speak.

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.

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Pat Fitzgerald