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.