MULLYARD

When the ice had gone

This hallowed hill remained;

Strong, vigilant, aware of its destiny;

Overseeing the comings and goings

Of countless people.

The ancient ones set stone on stone

To mark the place where ritual

Purposed their existence.

When time and circumstance

Urged their leaving

Others came and ritualised,

Stating their own life markings.

Mullyard observed, absorbed

And added to its mystery.

In later times, a holy man

And his caravan

Pilgrimmed down this hill,

Bell ringing, monks singing

Fading down the grey twilight.

Suddenly, as if with loud quietness,

The singing ceased, the bell silenced,

Its tongue loosened from its fastening

To mark the place

Where these holy travelers

Again set stone on stone

In a pattern of their own

To practice their rituals

And fill the air with their lifeword.

Mullyard observed, absorbed,

And added to its mystery.

 A great hunger scourged the land;

Gaunt, pitiful figures

Turned their backs to the hill

And trudged to a new life

Or an untimely death.

Mullyard mourned

With every step of their going.

Since that time,

Through the bitter years and the bright years,

There was more going than coming.

And every traveller left

Something of themselves

On this bright hill.

Mullyard observed, absorbed.

And added to its mystery.

Down the distant years

The siren song of this mystic hill

Reverberated in heart and mind

Of sons and daughters, of sons and daughters,

Of generations long gone,

Calling them back to one-ness

In the circle’s completion.

In returning, all have found

The ancient joy of those

Who set stone on stone,

And Mullyard rejoices

And observes and absorbs,

And continues to add to its mystery.

Tommy Makem June 16 2001