kells

Here’s a bit of an auld poem or whatever you would call it about the town I live in, which I just wrote because sure why I wouldn’t I. 
Kells
The people pass me by while I walk 

With the pages of my words in blue

My pen is black my hair gone grey

My dreams still a rainbow of hope

They nod and smile and I reply 

With a wisping joy of a home I found.

And the pubs stand with open arms

And there’s more Chinese food than

Native grub to purchase in silver trays.

The cross has a head missing and when

I stare the pagan in me sees the 

Beauty of the three spirals designed 

In the wind and truck beaten stone. 

The book, they pilaged to the place 

Where the west brits learned the rules 

Of domination, is missing, driving the

Spirits of the monk’s half lunatic mad

In the quest for their coloured pages. 

They look and can’t find their inks.

A tower is round, a saint’s home square

I sit in front of a wall writing auld words 

Some which rhymn and some which shock 

And inside I remember the people who 

Came before me from this historic mammoth

Of artistic beauty and wealth of creativity.

While somewhere beneath, a river runs, avoiding 

The stone chasms which need pile-driving to 

Penetrate the heart of a place where a gypsy 

King lies sleeping in gold beside the graves 

Of nuns and people of all shapes and sizes

I meander along the boulevard with my 

Thought which turn into wonder seeking

Moments of eternal relaxation while 

Around me they all seem to do the same.

The tale ends with a sun set over a spot 

Where the Vikings plundered and Cromwell

Marched and the monks hid and the priests

Said their auld prayers to the devout masses

From books at a hidden alter by a well

And the world is for a moment as it should.

© Francie McGivney 26.06.15

#hayfestivalkells Hay Festival Kells

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