Em-BOG-iment

the act of surrendering, descending, remembering

In the bogland time means nothing. Everything is decaying but forever born. Damp and respected.

Em-BOG-iment

(because there is as of yet no dictionary term for) the act of surrendering to the earth, the turf; descending, merging and releasing. Bleeding, fearing. Fearing the deep unknown and longing to dive into it.

Landmarks, signs and symbols vanish — as I squish a welly-boot into the dark depths of the bog, the turf cries out in squelch.

The world is suddenly unmapped. 

No tik-toking, never stopping - only preciousness and the remains of what once was and all that could be. The bog is a place of preservation, memory, and indeed time — time in the lyrical, eternal sense of the word.

Making up around 21% of this ‘emerald’ island — the bog is home to the unknown. The Irish bogland - a place of much dispute. Shall we carve it up and cook it, or shall we let it be? Shall we ritualise, worry, or remain? It is somewhat of a blanket, the bog, but one that reveals.