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Here is a poem we received from Remington Schmidt
His grandparents, Larry and Melissa Schmidt have traveled to Ireland a number of times. They play folk music, including a lot of Irish jigs and ballads. Remington occasionally play the fiddle or the bodhran with them, just for fun.
During one of their trips, they saw the event which inspired the poem.
The Caretaker of St. Declan’s Well
The spire stood guard above plots of stone
A final resting place for those
The Angels of Heaven,
Or Demons of Hell to meet.
Silence hung as heavy as the mist upon
The dew-covered grass
And the sky was pale gray
As if the land were a-snooze.
Over a narrow winding trail we strolled
Past the expired and interred,
Through pyres and crumbling crosses
Down stairs, ancient and steep.
The tense quietude was pierced by a noise,
The squeak of a rusty wheel
Ragged breathing
And the scuffling of weary shoes.
A man hunched and grey with an old Irish cap
Had hands wrapped in knitted socks
Around a black barrow
And skin as pale as a sheet.
“Kind sir, who are you?” We asked.
Slowly, carefully he turned
And as he did the fog followed
Erasing him from our views.
Though he stays away from prying eyes,
Forever he will dwell
The wind to echo his reply
“The caretaker of St. Declan’s Well.”
