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.
