Introduction To What They Left Behind
Some poems begin with an image. Others begin with a question. While some poems grow from memory; others grow from the land itself — from the quiet places where things are not lost, but deliberately left.
This Poem began with a challenge: to find one small, ordinary thing on an old boreen or in a forgotten field and let it carry a story without ever explaining what that story might be. Describe what is found without naming it; reveal its weight without explaining its story; show it belonging perfectly to the landscape — as if earth, grass and light already know its secret. Drawing on the familiar rhythm of the Bóithrín, and holding close the stillness of ciúnas, it walks slowly,
At first, I thought the difficulty would be finding the object. It turned out the harder part was learning to leave it alone. As the poem developed, I found myself less interested in deciding what had happened and more interested in what might remain when nobody is left to explain it. The land, the grass, the light and the quiet became as important as the thing lying among them.
I also discovered something I have been learning more often in my poetry: sometimes a poem does not need rhyme or a familiar structure to find its shape. Sometimes it finds its own way.
And sometimes, perhaps, the best thing a poet can do is look, wonder, and then leave the mystery where it was found. It is where for the poet, lessons are learned fromcomposing poetry where rhyme or structure are challenged and it dictates a new method in which to write. Then what does the poet do? He or she must learn to slow down enough and listen and allow the poem to take its own path.
What They Left Behind
The bóithrín bends here,
where grass keeps its own pace,
the ditch deepens, and the trees lean close —
as if the place itself draws breath.
It was not fallen,
nor thrown down.
It rested,
fitted gently
into the earth’s hollow,
set so it would not shift,
nor slip away in the rain.
Grass lay close around its edges.
The surface had known touch —
worn lines running
soft as old paths,
marks that did not shout,
only traced,
quiet as roots beneath the soil.
It met the light evenly,
edges smoothed
by more than wind or season,
held just so —
as hands might leave
what they meant to return to,
or what they left behind.
Around it, the ground lay level,
grass parted neatly,
like it learned
not to crowd in —
and the old tree behind
cast its shadow,
nothing hidden.
nothing forced,
exactly where it belonged.
A ciúnas lived here —
something beyond silence —
hung in the light,
slow as pollen,
even the wind, brushing past,
moved softly, as if it knew not to disturb.
What marked its face was not chance or wear —
line answered thought, curve answered curve,
careful, deliberate, each stroke met with care:
steady — made to fit this very ground.
No footprints forward,
no trail behind;
no voice explains — only the land receives:
as hills take stone,
as bark holds ring:
naturally, fully, unmasked.
The longer I looked, the heavier it felt —
not hand-heavy, but between-breaths heavy;
something settled, sure, complete:
fixed,
unshaken,
where things endure.
I would not move it,
could not read
what the worn lines might reveal.
It came here not to be known —
only to be:
this light,
this root,
one thing answering the land.
I turned back by the way I came,
leaving grass unbruised, earth whole —
behind me,
it stood exactly as it had before:
small,
chosen,
unclaimed —
the weight that stays,
long after sight has turned away.
Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald
All Rights Reserved
Quote of the Day: “Not everything left behind asks to be understood; some things simply wait for someone to wonder.”
Glossary
Bóithrín is pronounced “bor-EEN” and it means “a little road” or “a small country lane”
Ciúnas is pronounced “KYOO-nus” (or kew-nass) and it is the Irish word for silence, quiet, or calm.
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
patman4u.com 