I am not from Ireland, nor do I know why I am intrigued with all things ancient, Celtic, Pagan, mystical, and find myself humming Skye Boat Song every March 17th. 

Those who do not know me would think I was in fact of Irish heritage, keeping Celtic music on my playlist year-round and making my traditional corned beef every St. Patrick's Day.  Parades were a must every year and many fond memories at the local pubs were always spent celebrating.

Once upon a time, a writer with a love for all things Ireland came upon a seventeenth-century Courtyard turned religious site containing a mysterious Druid circle and rock-built altar. To my glee, it was the perfect setting for my book.  I created an entire fictional fantasy based on this stone circle. The characters were brought to life here, as a story was told of something ancient, forbidden, dark, but also heavenly.

Since my move away from my beloved Courtyard, I always pay homage by leaving tokens in the form of petals at the altar when I return each year for a visit. I remember the circle, and my story, and the ancient legends I love, that were an inspiration to me and my writing for many years.

One day my dream is to go to the Irish/Scottish countryside, and possibly embrace some new stories from the inspirations I find there.

Holy Witch

I inhaled the moon's gaze upon me, as I touched upon the jagged stone.

I felt my soul emerge through time, here to the place I felt so drawn.

It had taken me from the sea to a canopy of green.

I saw my likeness once etched into the stone.

I knew nothing then, yet it was my reflection staring back at me.

Purged of sin only to be thrust into the depths of Hell.

I've come for him above the hill,

And behind the mountain, where our destinies crossed,

Lost, alone, I know, yet I am here.

My soul is ancient, so I must heal from within.

My heart is pure so I must bleed alone.

When I came through the veil, I had left everything I once knew behind.

I was the saint, the sinner, the Holy Witch.

Left to the task of making sense of this past life and my place in it.

I held the fragile thread of life barely in my grasp.

The tears of heaven grew higher it seemed,

And I tasted of sin, and witchcraft and sorcery,

And of damnation.

Breathing became a task I forced myself to master.

I found myself back at the tree in the glen,

The memories rushing through my essence.

I wavered, hoping I would recover from the madness,

But it did not go.

I touched upon the pages of the book and began

Writing in words ancient and strange,

Unheard of in my time,

Yet so familiar they filled the parchment with my story.

By, Tina M. E., Author/Poet

*This article was submitted as part of IrishCentral’s “Love letter to Ireland” St. Patrick’s Day competition to win an Irish Heritage Tree. For more information on how to share your stories with the global Irish community visit IrishCentral Storytellers.

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