Peat Poem by Amos Greig

I have always enjoyed the smell.
of burnt peat, sometimes I would
languish in the smoke wreathed chambers.

For my Irish ancestry peat,
serves as an opiate,
drawn from common stock.

Our soil gives up its secrets,
reluctantly always claims
a price, pairs of shoes, trinkets.

Headless bog mummy,
peat preserved your clothes,
skin but no identifiers.

A pagan brethren,
What are you?
A sacrifice?

Your head removed suggests
a crime an act of violence
or random act of animal.

Morbidly I wonder do you smell
like burning peat.? As you join
the legions of royalty and anonymity

Plucked from the soil by curious
hands. Do you rail against such treatment?
or are you beyond such instincts.