A name, owned home to peat in bog,
long spades to lift the winter fuel –
now that’s a movement of the moss
for those in Ireland’s rural space
though not why it’s termed Emerald Isle.
Seems aerial of jungle growth
or hillocks shaded on one side –
a sign of life left undisturbed
or cover up, where pointing needs,
like ivy’s sucking tentacles.
How slowly goes this spreading rash,
its menu, mostly damp for growth,
a creepy tale of horror genre
or semi-precious peridots.
The brightest lime with bottle shades,
as groupies say, the rock must roll
for rolling stones gather no moss.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, most recently The Sweetycat Press, The Parliament Literary Magazine, Poetry Potion, Grand Little Things, The Poet Magazine.