Greetings, For today’s poem we continue on the journey we began last week. If you’re travelling with me still, I am truly grateful. If you are joining me for the first time, you are just as welcome, every step along this path has it’s own story and it’s own magic.
As I mentioned before, this series is rooted deep in the land I come from (and the place I call home). The tales I listened to in the quiet moments, and the experiences that shaped who I am. Just like that last piece, I will not reveal every thread or every meaning today. I only ask that you read with an open heart, and let the words take you where they will. Whether to a place you kow well, or somewhere that feels new and strange and wonderful. Some terms and images here carry echoes of old lore and personal memory, like those in Hollow Hill. I’ll keep them close for now, and in time, when the journey is further along, all will be made clear. Unless of course some of you and other readers uncover the connections before then.
So, fasten your seatbelts once more, step gently forward, and enjoy this next part of the adventure.
If you are new to this Blog or new to this series of Poetry I encourage you to read the Poem “Hollow Hill” By following the link and read this poem first.
The Silver Comb
In the firelight glow she spoke with heart,
Of a memory that split time apart,
As sparks caught the draft and started to fly,
I saw through her eyes a different sky.
The sash was held high to the star starved night,
An invitation for the soul to take flight,
But the chill that crept in through the open frame,
Carried a shadow that had no name.
In the room next door, where shadows were deep,
The young ones were huddled, pretending to sleep,
They buried their faces in linens and wool,
While the weight of the night hung heavy and full.
Then it tore through the dark, a bone cutting keen,
The wildest of sorrows that ever had been,
A silver comb flashing by a dark running stream,
Too real for nightmare, too sharp for a dream.
She grew old with that sound held deep in her ear,
A shadow of love and a shadow of fear,
And she tells it again with a voice soft and low,
To honour the debt that the living still owe.
For the wail is a promise, a thread, and a sign,
That we are branches of a much older vine,
And I listen in silence, a witness once more,
To the lady who combs by the dark distant shore.
Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald
All Rights Reserved
A Note from The Author:
Thank you for joining me on this journey of writing and discovery. Poetry, for me, is a continuous learning process. A way of finding my own voice and writing style and exploring the beauty of words.
I also write from the heart and never with the intention to cause offence. However, if anything I write ever causes discomfort, please know it is never my purpose. I am only human and occasionally typos or small errors may slip through; I do my best to correct them as soon as they are found.
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With Gratitude,
Pat Fitzgerald
patman4u.com 