A peat bog is a wondrous land,

With water, moss, and soil so grand.

It grows so slow, just a mill each year,

A meter tall in a thousand here.

Its rich, acidic ground sustains

Moss, insects, birds, across the plains.

With species numbering past a score,

Its ecosystem offers more.

One cubic meter, dense with care,

Holds carbon trapped within the air.

A hundred kilos, locked away,

That we must save in every way.

But when we drain this precious ground,

The life within no more is found.

Its fertile soil is sold and torn,

And carbon’s freed where it was born.

Fires burn where peat once stood,

In Russia, Indonesia’s wood.

In England too, the toll is clear—

Eighty-seven percent disappear.

So peat bogs, though they seem so small,

Hold futures big for one and all.

Preserve them now, and let them be,

A safeguard for our world to see.