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Bearer of the Holly

On a hill of emerald green lies the stone pile,
once a place of ancient might and knowledge stark.
Now it lies tumbled in the starlight this night so dark,
and the winds chase memories with subtle trial.

Dark these stone of old, soaked in history and blood,
once piled in strength, now tumbled by cruel guile.
Yet, still the walls hint at life once within this pile,
where love and laughter fell before fate’s flood.

Here life was lived by those who cherished the land,
and strove to keep it free from other’s greed.
Now their resting place is littered with weed,
and they sleep at peace from those of the iron hand.

They were a happy folk, song and dance and pipes did call,
and theirs a spirit free and bold shaping their lives so well.
Here, magic held sway, and forces old and ever darkly fell,
and Druids taught us the old ways, until the day they too did fall.

I can see them still, walking here and there, as before,
and I hear their voices soft on the wind across time dim.
For I have the gift, fey, weary of the things I see on Time’s rim,
a part of me, though faded by ages separating us evermore.

I perceive both worlds, one on the other, and both real they be,
each holding me in part, recording what will, and has been.
And I wish I might be just part of one, every now and then,
and leave my fate behind, no longer ancient as the sounding sea.

I am the bridge by which memories are renewed again,
as through me flows the spirit of this land, my fate.
Part curse, part honor, and part wonderment to sate,
my blood echoes the ancient gift, amid my quiet pain.