The Caretaker of St. Declan’s Well

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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.”

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