I haven’t taken part in many writing challenges recently. Quite honestly, its all been a bit of a struggle for a while, writing and researching for the blog, keeping up with all your lovely blogs and comments, writing books and all my motherly duties as well. Sometimes everything seems to conspire to suck the inspiration out of you, and it’s a downward spiral from there.
But Sue’s picture really spoke to me; it reminded me of all the old places of Ireland I love with my heart and soul and bones. I need to pay some visits. In the meantime, I wrote this, and added a poem I started when I was about 17, but only finished last year. It seems to fit the prompt. At least to me.
Beards of moss drape old stones with velvet softness. Stark-raw and already ancient, these great stone-bones once teased and tortured from the earth into grey new skeletons, wherein men danced and dreamed and viewed the stars, survive in hunched fragments of former glory.
Now tumbled and crumbling, they lie discarded, forgotten, memories of magic dormant yet still alive throbbing within them. You can feel it if you touch them, feel the vibration in the air on your skin. Be still.
The earth remembers. Time is meaningless here; there is no rush. She feels her way, creeping slowly over recumbent remains, claiming lost treasure torn from her flesh. She heals the hurt without reproach while no one notices.
What cities lie buried beneath each hill? Monuments born of ancient times, Forgotten and lost but standing still, Neglected, disconnected, these are our crimes. What histories are etched into ancient stones? Tales decayed with the fall of walls, The sag of dynasty, the crumble of bones, The march of ghosts through tumbled halls. If we could learn to unlock the past What shrouds would unfurl from our eyes? Would realisation be ours at last? Understanding the what, when, who and why's. The power was strong, up on Shee Mor, I felt at great peace, content. At Moytura, where warriors fought their war no harm for me was meant. At Uisneach, by the lough where Lugh was drowned I grieved for Eire's loss, watched Beltaine fires leap. Then to Tara, where High Kings were crowned, the Sacred Stone sadly lost in eternal slumber deep. These places, their magic floods my soul, washes me clean of the now. Their stories surge through me, re-make me whole, ancient voices tell of the how. Ancestors sing and call me home. I would go if I knew the way. Under my feet, beneath the loam stirs blood, beats heart of a by-gone day.
Head on over to Sue Vincent’s blog to take a look at the other entries, and if you fancy giving it a go yourself, here is what you have to do;
Use the image to create a post on your own blog… poetry, prose, humour… by Wednesday 25th May and link back to Sue’s post, not this one, with a pingback. Please make sure that the pingback works and if not, copy and paste your link into the comments section of Sue’s post.
Don’t forget to use the new and shiny #writephoto hashtag in your title
Due to the volume of entries, only the first few posts will feature on Sue’s blog during the week and all posts will be included in a round up on Thursday 26th May.
Feel free to use #writephoto logo or include the prompt photo in your post if you wish or you can replace it with one of your own to illustrate your work. Have fun!