I’ve been lurking around the graveyard again, but only to say a few prayers for the dead souls buried there and capture the stonework of some of the crosses. This one caught my eye in particular for its detail on a beautiful frosty morning last year. I think you might agree it must have taken the stone mason an incredible amount of time and patience. I can’t look at this cross without stepping closer to look at the detail and it makes me think about my own Celtic connections. My Irish ancestors, you could say, are like the knotwork of this cross: their history intricately woven and set in stone. Their feet have walked this land, and though their footsteps have been worn away their path has been tread into the memory of the land. Their hands have toiled, the fruits of their labour only enjoyed in their lifetime, but their efforts were not forgotten. Their lives have been and will sadly never be again. Death has silenced their voices forever. Or has it?
Now, years later, new feet walk this green land and dance to a different jig. A new but familiar blood flows and a new voice sings the Irish songs they knew so well. There are no whispers on this Irish breeze to tell me if there were other artists in the family from a time long ago but maybe there is something in me that was a part of them and that might be the clue. I have to wonder on as I make my way back to the car.























