Triskele

The Mound of Hostages

The Stone of Destiny

Words get in the way

When attempting to describe mystery.

Hill of Tara

Where ancient peoples buried their own,

Where a rock screamed when the rightful king touched it,
Where the High Kings were crowned,

Where perhaps St. Patrick made Christianity known

Or not

("Read and listen to the stories then determine for yourself what you believe is true.")

View from Royal Seat 

Mounds surrounded by ditches

Like ripples from a stone cast into a pond

And a view to the horizon, 

A sea of green and lines of blossoming Hawthorn trees -

St. Patrick's forbidding church sits at the edge

And crows eerily caw

So many stories in this place

Unknown and imagined

St. Patrick's Church

Hawthorn Trees

Newgrange entrance, roofbox and Neolithic art

Newgrange

Its narrow cruciform passageway

Where large stone bowls sit in its three alcoves

Once having held human bones and cremains

Some primordial ritual,

Its corbel arch built in such a way that it never leaks

And Neolithic knowledge of astronomy

That made it possible

For a shaft of light to break into the darkness

Of the chamber at the exact moment of winter's solstice.

Wisdom of the ancients that I do not have,

I am in awe

I wonder about my connection to these ancestors

When I see triskele and spiral-like features carved into stone,

Like my own mindless (are they?) doodles

And Van Gogh's starry night.

Chevrons and lozenges too are here

Yet to be decoded

I am in a holy and mysterious place

Woven into this matrix somehow,

Drawn into the Center.

Hill of Tara