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Image by Jeremy Kwok


with the martello journal

Passing Molerick Bog

by s.c. flynn

This is a gate to the underworld, they used to say,
and it’s easy to think so when the mist floats up at dusk,
a guardian spirit hiding secrets in a cloak,
and the earthy smell grows richer in the dampening air.
Places like this are Ireland’s unconscious, storage rooms
lasting millennia, so somewhere down there –
maybe right near the bottom – must be a bit of me
locked in acidic stasis, patiently waiting
while my ancestors left and I at last returned.
I will not go digging, afraid of what I’d find,
as I learnt to think of underworlds as Hell
and I know already how that might feel:
the clawing anguish and need to escape
that leave you gasping for breath, groping for the surface,
desperate to cross back to the other side,
a shattered hermit emerging from seclusion
after battle with the Devil; I hurry on.

S.C. Flynn was born in Australia of Irish origin and now lives in Dublin, Ireland. His poetry has been published in more than ten countries, and most recently in Dreich, Tír na nÓg, New Word Order and Beir Bua magazines.

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