It was like a pyramid
Or a Ziggurat
A stack of turf outside my uncle Hugh’s
Sods of turf built high
Cut and dried in Mayo air
Brought home by ass and cart
Along that thoroughfare
The boreen down to Hugh’s
I knew so well
And always the smell of turf
When I landed in the west
Nostrils notified you’re here at last
The perfume of perfection
All of Irish life
Caught up contained
Within that whiff’s delight
And Aunty Annie’s salty butter
Soda bread from the pan
That sat in state above the turf fire’s glow
And eggs so deeply yellow
And salty bacon too
And tea in china cups
Of white and blue
And later on the bacon and the cabbage
Floury potatoes falling from their skins
And children round the table
A wealth of cousins there
And sods of turf were burning
In that Mayo air
Brian Fahy
8 January 2022
Erris Poetry 