I do not know the history
Buried in the bog of my father’s head.
He offers one peaty corpse
And I must don my boots
And kick loose the petrified secrets
He keeps stashed in soil.
I do not know the stories
Of the imps that bounce in blades.
Their truths are told in whispers
Older than the nation but not the dirt.
Their lips shape sounds
Never meant for my ears.
I do not know the words
Built for the stones under my feet.
The cliffs were carved by tongues
More gifted, while mine sits stagnant,
Cursed; my unholy syllables
Indelicate, powdering gravel.
Molly Burns - poet 
Good one, Molly! Lovely imagery.
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