Who is Ali? I’ll tell you who I’m not. I’m not an archaeologist, or a historian. I’m not a scientist, or a scholar. I’m not an expert in anything, and don’t claim to be. The more I learn, the more I realise how little I know.
I’m just me, and I’m inexplicably drawn to the places of the past, the really ancient places of Ireland, where the ghosts of those who lived there once still cling, their voices sighing on the breeze. They are legend. They are myth. They want their stories known. So that is what I do.
Who is Ali? I am a conduit between past and present, a writer, a storyteller. I am the Guardian of Irish Mythology.
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.