Boreens
They called 'em
Back roads.
Turning in
On themselves,
Merging.
Between hedgerows
And red tin roofs.
The roads less
Travelled…
And the odd tourist
Taking the shortcut
Advised to go back.
By a man making hurlies.
To a sign that said
Kill something
Or other,
Pointing out in the fields
Of buttercups and
Dandelions
Blowing in the wind
And not a Bog
For miles.
The afternoon spent
Nursing the Pint
Or a crossword,
In Grocery Bars,
Stills battered
Out the back
And an insurance man
Selling clothes pegs.
The company
Of a collie dog.
And there was any
God's amount
Of Time.
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