Are there voices still in those standing walls?
Ancient laughter in the cracks?
Some Seanachaí, fireside stories,
Lurking in those smuts of black?
The earthen floor is weeded now,
Where dancing feet once trod;
Rebellion had been whispered here,
When times were not so good;
The old folk have passed away,
Perhaps, their shadows still remain?
Some say that on All Soul’s Night,
You can still hear the Banshee’s wail.
© (Löst Viking) (July 15th 2015) John Anthony Fingleton