They storlled from the bog
Their hearts slipped away
To grieve from where
They learned to wipe the
Tears of frustrated love
Which dribbled through
The darkened stubble of the
Only youth they ever knew
Beneath the clouds hammering
The clay upon the soles
They tied with calloused fingers
Beneath blackened nails.
The land dug deep inside the
Skin brunt red in afternoon
Hours of sweat dripped labour
The bites of hungry flies drew
Red from the tan as milkened
Tea quenched a thirst born
Of hope for the scratched map
Trailing to where the world
Has embraced the melody
Birthed in gin drop joints
Of hope for change
(C) frankie mcgivney
Words I love to write 