Sí an Bhrú

For dverse

Sí an Bhrú

It delves deep, hugs the land,
ringed about with stone,
whorl-worked the lintels,
the passage in the dark.

I went down into the dead place first
when I was small enough
to know the ghosts by name,
to feel hands take mine
and whisper stories from the times before.

I remember the air still and trembling
on the brink of revealing a world
almost lost, not forgotten.

I remember running my finger
in the tracks of magic,
the symbols on the brink of consciousness
that led into the dark,
split by a shaft of sun, palm cupped,
to spill light five thousand years a-growing.

I remember the soft stillness of the air,
like the touch of a beloved hand on my cheek,
the feeling of belonging, to the dark,
the bones, the whispered voices,
the strings plucked by the wild west wind.