The Bogman

Bear his body
To the Sperrins
Those mountains
Of the north

Lay him at rest
Where the heather
Draws the butterflies
And the bees

Where he dug
Black gold
Drank buttermilk
And ate scones

Where the sun
Burnt him brown
And the rain
Sought his pores

Perhaps beneath
A large oak
To be dug up
Preserved
During the
Centuries ahead....