Bóithrín Turn

Introduction For Bóithrín Turn

There is a quiet, unspoken wisdom in the land itself — and nowhere more so than along an old bóithrín. That narrow, winding country lane that has seen every season come and go. It does not need to tell you the world is turning; it knows before you do.

This poem was born on one of those first soft-shifting days of autumn — that sharp, sweet edge where summer lingers, yet the air carries something new: the dampness in the grass, a slowing in the cattle, a quiet nod between neighbours who do not need to speak to understand. It is about that gentle, inevitable turning — the moment we first feel the season breathe and change, all around us and beneath our feet. No great drama, no grand fanfare — just the land, the light, the quiet rhythm of a place that holds all its stories close. The bóithrín does not hurry. It does not leave. And when summer begins to turn, it walks her gently home.

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Bóithrín Turn

The bóithrín knows before we do —
a sharp, still shift in the air today,
not cold, exactly, but no longer warm.
The grass, pale-parched through July's heat,
has drank the damp and risen rich,
deep and dark green again,
brushing, bending as I walk.


Out in the field the cattle move slowly,
heads hung low, breath faint as mist
against the low, late light —
the grass is sweet, recovering
and they graze, gathering
the soft earth shifting under them.


Birds have changed their call and cadence —
The fledglings no longer fuss or beg —
they hop with heart, test the wind,
while overhead the crows draw closer,
compact, circling, as if shaping
the short, sharp days that come.


Neighbours pass with collars turned high,
scarves snug-wound around their throats,
hands deep-folded in heavy pockets —
we nod, no word needed — each knows what comes.


The sun hangs low and lingering,
gilding briar and stone alike,
and somewhere in the slow-stealing wind
lives the soft, dark breath of coming rain.


Summer lingers, light and loose —
but she is turning, tenderly turning,
and the bóithrín walks her home.

^{_{Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald
All Rights Reserved}}

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Kings Quote:
“Summer does not leave us in a hurry; she simply slows her pace, wraps the ditches in a golden, lingering light, and lets the lane guide her home.” _{— Created in collaboration with AI}

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