A quaint hillside park, repository of memories in this winter’s season
The mysteries of old Ireland rising like mist from the cold, damp ground
This sea of lichen covered stones
Carved with the names of local ancestors
Their muted voices lost in January’s breeze
As I slowly stroll through this hidden island of silence
Under a dreamy panorama of stark, leafless trees and painted ivory clouds
And the spire of an old stone chapel rising in the distance.
The amber rays of setting sun play across the frozen field in a windy kaleidoscope
As late afternoon shadows dance,
‘Cross uneven ground and rusting iron gates
Drawing me onward in enchantment and fascination, through the haunted park,
on timeless paths.
