Niamh’s Bones

Under her tread, the gut of the land
Soaks her worn shoes, soiling her apron.
Forming her childlike frame into a pitiful arch
Her flesh fell into a breaking fear,
Grasping rotten potatoes buried
In the grime asylum of a bog.
Amongst the sodden packet
Of the others, she held her breath
In the midst of dying thickets;
None of which could shelter quarried lovers.
The field offered no sense or nonsense,
Only muffled winds and famished souls.
In silence, they become the maggots
Of a shivering havoc.