I've been down in the green valley, the holy place.
The one where the pagan and saint walk the
blessed earth yet still, in silent mystic. The one
where the river flows ever onward to its birthplace,
carrying the tortured history, winding slow with
measured precision, to cast upon the ocean. Down
where the sacred hills, those silent sentinels to the
glorious but tragic past, keep watch in painful
solitude.Down where the spirits keen and await each dawn with
hopeful intent of peaceful morn. Where the lonesome,
royal fort is no more, the ramparts trampled roughshod
and buried underfoot. Where the memories of olden
kingly splendor died ‘neath the invaders harsh heel.
Down where the royal plain stretches, forlornly grasping
at the distant, unreachable horizon.
Down where the stone of destiny sits in erect remembrance,
remembering. Where ancient Brehons, in their colored
robes, inscribed the laws of the common man in flowing
ogham script. Where the magicians cast the spells of the
Tuatha and conjured up the Fianna, the young ones,
the ones who would fight to save them.
Down where the sacred mound exhales the essence of
all that has gone before, and inhales all that will ever be,
the inscribed stones ever alive. Where the sun aligns in
glorious magnitude within the cloistered, chambered walls.
Down where the haunting, haunted battle cries beseech
the blooded banks and echoes among the reeds and rushes.
Down where the lark soars straight as a fletchers’ creation,
upward, up to the blue heaven, and sings.
Down where the final slaughter reached it’s bloody,
brutish, climactic end on the plains of royal Meath.
The old King gone, the planted pretender crowned
with a foreign, alien hand, the scepter cursed.
Down where the blood soaked shields awash in the
churning torrent, sailed out upon the reddened river.
Down where the fields absorbed the crimson life force
of the vanquished warriors, grotesquely strewn, dead,
in furrow, bracken and tussock. Yes, I have been down in
that green valley and one day I will return.