Steps to the Spring

There are times when I complete a poem and think, “what do I say about this for readers could go on this journey?”. But on this occasion, there was only one word I could say.. Nothing!!

This is the 4th in the series of poems that carried me on a journey of self discovery as it were, that of finding myself within the field of poetry. And of myself finding that FreeVerse was not such a bad place to be in.. Because the last few weeks we have been going through a number of areas in Celtic or Irish Folklore that helped form the person that is most Irish people especially myself.

On this journey you have walked with me along this road, of reading just a tiny piece of the Fairy Fort or fairy mounds. Which still has very deep beliefs in the underworld of the “Shee” or “Fairies” (not to be confused with the stories of pointy eared little beings.. But of a people that the very name is never mentioned aloud. There is a quiet fear and respect for this world and the “good people” as the older irish would have called them.

Then we went on to a story that was handed down to me and it is a true one. That of the banshee.. This is one who is said to follow certain irish names and cry at the time of their death and her keening or cry is heard at that moment.. It is a bone cutting cry that makes every hair stand on end and then some.

Then we went along to an experience that i had myself with another lad at that time, as a young teenager. It is I believe to have been as I stated back during that poem’s post on the blog.. It is I believe to have been another of the “Shee” stories and a trickster “shee” whose aim is to scare and confuse.

Then there is todays poem, That of what are a whole series of wells that had been seen as healing wells where “Whitethorn trees”were growing close to a well that was a healing well that was said to have been guarded by “The keeper of the well” (again folklore”) but as I know of one not very far from where I grew up this became another of this series of poems on folklore.. Except for one issue, I came to understand and believe that some folklore storiues could only be told and seen in Free Verse.. That with breaks and line or word breaks that should bring a pause or breath for the reader before reading on.. It shold set an air for the reader in there poems.. This poem, and last weeks one were set out in that manner, top set a mood and speed of speech or a slowing of steps as you walk along.

That is the most simple form I could do to explain all the poems as well as toays poem.

I do however feel the need to make this much known, I believe that what is folklore that is tied so deeply in Celtic and Irish Folklore, is something I believe is deeply important to what it is to being Irish and indeed understand an irish person.. We are a suspicious and Superstitious at heart and it is a part of who I am and have been since I was very young. But I am a bible believing Christian and have been so for many years. Thus anyone sending bible verses etc, Is something I know all too very well. But I believe that The Irish culture is being placed in danger of eroding and I along with very many others will never let that happen.. The Irish language also was suffering, BUT that is making a come back and I am happy that I have learned that beautiful langauge. God Bless you all..

Having said all of this Please enjoy this poem.

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Steps to the Spring





I stopped on this road, narrow, hushed and still.
Today is different, as sports fans filled the adjoining field.
Yet curiosity brought me here.
I sat, waited, asking if this was right,
As the sports fans cheered inside their ground.



I reached the gate next door, and paused, unwilling
To step too soon, where old ways hold sway.



A silent warning hangs in the air,
Half welcome, half cold: “Be gone.”


As though the ground itself,
remembered,
each step laid upon it.


I step inside, slow, careful, light.
The grass lay neat, almost too well kept,
Between the houses, clean and bright,
and the pitch where loud voices cheer.



Outside, the hum of life, of cars, of play,
distant shouts, the world going about its rounds.
Inside, a silence so complete,
you’d say time itself had slowed and held its ground.



The trees stand round, their boughs held high.
Not a bird stirs, not a wing or call,
as if they watch and wait in silence,
cautious as I was before the stone wall.



No song, no rustle,
nothing breaks the hush,
Only the soft trickle of the spring below.
Every leaf seems held in breathless stillness,
guardians of what the waters know.



I move more freely now, the tension gone,
drawn to the stone rim where the water lies.
I bend low and gaze upon
what hands have left through centuries.



Coins glinting, small stones, chains, crosses laid,
trinkets and tokens, bright and weathered thin.
Who knows what heart first made offerings here,
before the name of Mary entered in?



Here lies the secret, deep and still.
Offerings gathered through the years,
each one placed by different hands,
each carrying its own belief.
The well-keeper’s presence lingers on,
unchanged by name or rite or changing creed.
What was sacred still lingers here,
a quiet space where all beliefs may lead.



No whitethorn spreads its shade today,
gone in the storm, but spirit stays the same,
and water runs the same old way,
receiving each gift, remembering every name.



I rise at last, the silence soft and deep,
the uneasy feeling turned to peace within.
Between the houses and the noise beyond,
the spring still keeps its silence for us all.





Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald 
All Rights Reserved 

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e from The Author:

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