From the opening of 'North' Heaney is conscious of his marginalisation. In this collection the bog, neither land nor water and both the oppressing goddess and the passive womb, is a layer of mud on which Heaney's consciousness germinates. This is part of Heaney's pilgrimage both past and upto 'the Irish thing' and the poetry is slow, deep, reflective and brilliant as the bog reveals both 'gem stones' and layers of the poets wet and bottomless consciousness. Heaney moves lucidly from the 'Honeycombed workings' of this achealogical journey to set himself against a backdrop of myth in this gloriously muddy pursuit of his whole identity.