The Discovery

 

I’d been here, a year maybe; and decided to see what was

covered by the overgrowth in a corner of the garden.

I hacked and cleared and found a small ravine

in the half-light of over-hanging trees, hazel and sally, with

a waterfall spilling down thin layers of rock, turning a corner

to a semi-circular enclosure, carpeted with anemones,

perfect for a bench.

I could see there was an old crossing-point over the stream,

a path climbing upward with a low bank running alongside.

Not far away, on the other side, the remains of an old dwelling;

barely more than a hovel. I imagine buckets carried to and fro,

clothes washed, boots sloshed clean as they headed in for the night;

the traffic of playing children, of adults driving their cattle,

of neighbours sharing their time.

There is an aura to places like holy wells, mass rocks, old laneways;

the marks of lives lived prompt visions, memories almost;

as though ghosts, pinned in by modern technology, have been

consigned to spend eternity in these haunts. Silences are held breaths;

the hills, drumlins, are billow-like behind me, it’s easy to picture

the farmers heading up to check on their sheep, dig their ridges;

meeting them, like this, is a solemn experience.