Irish Roads, serpentine and shiny with rain,
wind through the irish countryside.
Every curve reveals a different
facet of scenery that enhances the ride.
Castle ruins appear, as if by magic,
around the next bend like something
out of a fairytale, a mystery or a long lost friend.
Piles of stone, scattered around, are all
that's left of a dynasty.
The misty air hangs heavy with the sighs of
spirits who long to be free.
Walking around in the wet grass
under the shadows of once kingly realms,
the past seems close enough to touch
and see the knights still at their watchful helms.
Pagentry of a long ago era slices through the still air...
unheard by those who linger
around and loiter there.
The sense of being haunted is not
from the sight of an ectoplasmic being...
it comes from the closeness
to it's past rather than the present it's seeing.
Cathedrals, abbeys and monesteries still,
if you listen well, echo with voices, bells ringing
and counting out the hours, the
hush of whispered prayers and unearthly singing.
Centuries press close and crowd in
with a message they've long waited to convey;
to not forget the lessons
learned from mistakes made along the way.
Spectral warnings from long dead
kings, bards and priests
gather and provide a aura of
urgency coming from the deceased.
Huge windows, now devoid of
their colorful stained and leaded glass,
stare blankly into the twilight
and out into the tall, green grass.
Coming back to the car afterwards,
weighed down by the images from the past,
we are letting a breath, that up to then
had been held unnoticed, out at last.