In considering methods and what it would take for me to put today’s Poem together. In itself eventually took me on a journey of its own that will reveal to be what is a departure from my usual style of writing. This is because some tales within a poem dictates its own style. Therefore for today’s Poem, I have composed in free verse or free form, basically todays poem dictated that todays journey is going via a free verse.
My journey in learning what I could about poetry has taken me down roads I never imagined even visiting, yet I compose in such ways. My chosen style i s and has always been the ordered style of Aa Bb rhyming with alliteration and assonance etc. As many poems flow great with organised strick structure, yet others like todays poem, takes its own route.
Hollow Hill:
To explain the decision for this change in style, I will have to explain some of the previous two poems that were composed in this series. In the first Poem of this series, Hollow Hill, I wrote about Fairy Forts or Ring Forts. In ancient Celtic folklore, ring forts or as they are known as fairy forts, were seen as doorways or entrances to a subterranean realm of the ancient ones known as the Tuatha Dé Danann , (TOO-ah-hah Day DAH-nuhn or TOO-uh-huh Jay DAN-un. It is sometimes simplified further to “Too-ah Day Dhanna”.)
This is Celtic folklore or Irish folklore at its best and one which has a deep rooted belief for so much of it in my own life and indeed Irish society for generations. The Tuatha Dé Danann (“People of the Goddess Danu”) are a supernatural race in Irish mythology, often regarded as the pre-Christian gods and goddesses of Ireland. They were skilled in magic, art, and warfare, ruling Ireland for 150 years after arriving in a mist and defeating previous occupants. For the most part this helps make up what people love about Irish people and a part of the reason colonial rule failed in Ireland, aside from the fact that we Irish detested being ruled by folks who hated who we were.
I grew up in a town that had one such ring fort on the outskirts of the town. So much of the beliefs and folklore is deeply rooted in our culture and ways, mushc still remains today in many areas. There is a good read on wikipedia that will explain much of this. Ring forts / Fairy Forts. I encourage you to visit and take a read up on this. I grew up and was taught to respect the folks known as “The good people” or “The gentry” or any number of terms that were used for those known as The Sidhe (shee).
This poem centered around this folklore and how the Shee were not justv feared but widly respected in a fear and respect kind of way. The term Hollow Hill was another phrase for a ring fort or fairy mound.
Having this knowledge does it change or alter your view of that Poem now that has been made known?
The Silver Comb:
This second poem in this series was about a story that was told to us as children of “The Banshee”. This story was a true , experience that was passed down to us as children by my late mother. I took this story and moulded it into this poem.
A banshee (bean sí or “fairy woman”) is a female spirit from Irish folklore who heralds the death of a family member by wailing, shrieking, or “keening”. Traditionally, she is associated with specific ancient Gaelic families and serves not to cause harm, but to warn the living of an impending passing.
Also this is something we learned to deeply respect and avoid if one comes upon her in any of her forms. She is known to be found by a siver or stream using a silver comb to comb her hair as she wailed beyond belief. Again it is a folklore that we learned to respect and fear.
Todays Poem:
As you may now gather this also is a very true event that I was witness to. Also again I learned to respect it big time. If one did not believe, fine that is theirs to hold that. But Here I respect what was real and a very true event. I will explain this Poem in more detail in a couple of weeks once the journey is at an end in this series of poems. But please know that we are half way along this journey and adventure, we are learning via poetry, of a little piece and touch of Irish Folklore. I know many will not believe and may voice that, yet I say whatever it was in your view, this is something that moulds what is being Irish. Before Hollywood is Irish or Celtic Folklore was and still is.
Another background key note for todays poem is, I gew up with a speech Impediment (Stutter or a stammer), which hindered how I spopke for a little over the first 20 years of my life. I still feel the same sensations taht I felt back then when speaking, yet that stutter is still there but only visable as it were to me as I read quietly. I am fine serieusly, (LoL) I write poetry and that is great.. haha…
When I was growing up I was taught how to speak in certain formats or styles, like dont do this. Or dont do that.. etc basically rules of what to do and not to do, Like one does when composing a poem in Aa Bb format or in AB AB style poetry. Which I held to in a strict manner. Thus when composing todays poem in free form, I struggled big time, it was out of place and highly uncomfortable for me. So I ask that you, please go easy on me. I am no longer comfortable with this tyle and it feels totally alien to me..
Having said that Enjoy Todays Poem
Between The Lights
I step from my doorway now, and the world shifts,
Not forward, not back, but through some thin veil,
That leads me past these old city lights,
To a night back home, where the wind breathed thin.
We sat in a circle, breath misting the air, voices low,
I being one who listened most, my eyes roamed wide,
Words stuck fast in my throat back then, tangled like bramble,
I read the dark to catch what sound might carry,
To hold my tongue, and let the world speak itself.
Tales of the other world stood clear,
Of those that walked between,
To be honoured, not sought lightly.
Still, I wondered what waited beyond the line, we feared to cross.
Then came a cry, sharp, thin, and hanging in the cold,
Like a thread pulled loose from the sky.
Curiosity moved our feet where words could not go,
Respect walked beside us, a silent guide.
Guessing it’s source, a small one waking,
where sleep hung heavy, behind panes.
As we neared,
The sound slipped further on,
A drifting fragile thing, that would not be caught.
Pausing...
We went deeper into the darkness,
Again...
It shifted pulling beyond reach,
Then the air felt thick and the night too wide.
Warnings rising in both our bones.
No words spoken,
We turned to run,
Breath ragged,
Hearts loud against the cold,
To safer worn ground,
To let that cry,
Wander where it belonged,
Between the world we walk and dare not go,
Soon we spoke in lowered tones,
Till laughter softened what we feared.
Yet the night no longer felt the same,
Though stars still burned above the dark.
I heard the tales, yet never knew their weight,
Till fear took hold, and left me wide awake.
Some doors are opened just a crack, then closed,
And what lies past, only the dark still knows.
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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Pat Fitzgerald
patman4u.com 
Thank you for sharing my attempt at poetry and one relating to folklore and irish herritage. God Bless
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