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Thursday, January 28, 2010


Following a visit to Newgrange and the surrounding mounds in Fourknocks, I wrote the following poem. Having visited a 'burial tomb' in its natural state and having just previously visiting Newgrange, I realised how wrong the archeologist had got it.
Newgrange was destroyed rather than rebuilt. My guide, a very close family friend, has lived in the area since childhood. He remembered the untouched mound and he also told a very sad tale of arrogance and ignorance. Newgrange is a testament to how an oversized ego can truly destroy a very precious monument. He had worked on the site and spoke from experience in regard to those 'professionals' who knew better.
The poem refers more to Fourknocks and less to Newgrange, except for the final verse, which truly does refer to the desecrated site, once held so sacred.


Cobwebs grow up on the wall,
In a corner, way up tall.
The roof half gone, the rain comes in,
Beside the puddles, the faeries sing.

The grass grows tall between the stones,
Beneath the ground lie ancient bones.
The moonlight glitters across the floor,
Softly wafting through the door.

The sun, the moon and a thousand stars,
Pluto, Venus and tiny Mars.
The bones below with a thousand tales,
For every star, a soul for sale.

Making magic the wee folk dance,
Across the dead they sing and prance.
Beneath the moon and stars by night,
Appearing heedless, for fear no fright.

A ghostly white, soft shimmering,
Above, around, this ancient ring.
Resting centuries undisturbed,
Meddled by man, the spirits perturbed.

All it now but a memory,
Stored up long in Them and Me.
Looks so strange to the opened eye,
The hooded past; the modern lie.

Warrior Princess