Tara, where warriors fought and banquets abounded and the sound of the harp echoed through the hallowed halls.
Vendors now ply their trade, kings still rule and spirits live on.
In the hills and mounds, in every blade of grass and every sacred shadow. The Hill of Tara People gazing, sheep grazing, plain dipped bold druid green and frenzied, freckled clover, wild, unkept, unhindered patrolling the mystic within. A roll call of secrets, genuflecting thistles gossip in Grainne's pale ear. On shamrocked shoulders Celtic cudded banquets circle in a lamb's mouth then nuzzle Jacob's pillow. Against a stifled stone's roar, womb of kings, tomb of rivals, Gaellic pharoah's empty Ireland's pagan Rome.