Poem
Where the Hills Remember
Among heather, stone and mist, the hills keep invisible paths and voices that time has not erased.
Somewhere beneath the Irish sky, where ancient hills in silence lie, the wind still knows a hidden way that only opens far from day.
Beyond the heather, stone and rain, old voices wander through the plain; they call no name, they leave no trace, yet something lingers in that place.
Perhaps the hills were never still, perhaps they breathe beneath our will; perhaps behind each mossy stone there waits a road we’ve never known.
And when the mist begins to rise and twilight gathers in the skies, the veil grows thin, the shadows part, and Ireland whispers to the heart.
“Come closer now, but softly tread, where living dreams walk with the dead. Not every door is meant for sight, not every world belongs to light.”
So if one evening, all alone, you hear the wind among the stone, don’t ask what waits beyond the hill— just listen.
Ireland remembers still.
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