In today’s Post, I am returning to the recent series that retells folklore in Poetry form. This also helps me to move between Poetry forms and styles. Following a little break away from the series of poems that carried us on a journey and helped me as a poet to explore my own writing style and how I set about the poetry, for another poem in the past week.
Yet I return to Folklore as told in Poetry. I am working on keeping my introduction as short as possible and when you are ready, sit back, with a cup of coffee, tea or what ever your beverage is, get set and enjoy the poem.
The Watcher of the Old Blood
Where hawthorn blooms and blackthorn grows,
where bogland breathes and cold wind blows,
she walks the line between earth and air,
one foot upon the grass,
one foot inside the mist that drifts
where old forgotten roads have passed.
She is not made of fear or fright,
but guardian of her kin by right.
She knows each name the valley holds,
the secrets every hill unfolds.
The history written in the land,
each joy, each grief,
each quiet hand
that tends a hearth
or walks the grass.
She sees the life beneath your skin,
she knows the truth you hold within.
She watched your life before you came,
bound to this earth
and bound by name.
But listen well, and understand,
she does not judge by wealth or land.
She judges by the words you speak,
the care you give to tree and stream,
the grace you show to small living things.
Do not tear the bush where she may hide,
or speak ill of what has died.
Do not turn cold or hard of heart
to stranger, beast,
or living earth.
Walk gentle, soft, with open ways,
she guards you all your length of days.
If you speak soft and treat her well,
her quiet peace within you’ll dwell.
A calm that comes when storm draws near,
cool breeze upon your brow when tired,
warmth rising through the winter’s cold,
the feeling you are never alone.
She will stand back beyond your sight,
wrapping your home in softest light,
silent as the falling rain,
watching over you again.
Men hear her cry and shake with fear,
and think she calls their ending near.
But they do not know her sound is grief,
what love becomes when running deep,
how it breaks open through the sky
when it is time to say goodbye.
She does not scream to bring the end,
she weeps because she is your friend.
She cries because her love is strong,
and guides her people where they belong.
So do not fear the wandering one,
she holds your life beneath the sun.
Guardian of the blood and bone,
she is the past that guards the present,
the ground that holds you when you fall,
the voice that whispers through the hall
when all the house is quiet and still.
She is not shadow.
She is real.
Love that outlives every grief.
Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald
All Rights Reserved
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.
Support My Work
Running this blog involves time and costs. If you enjoy my writing and would like to help keep this space alive, there are two simple ways you can support me:
Click on the advertisements, Every click helps, no matter how small and goes a long way towards covering expenses.
Buy Me A Coffee
NOTE: I am considering a different route to go rather than The Buy Me a Coffee method. I have been facing a number of issues with that site therefore I am considering another route..
If you feel inclined, you can leave a small donation via the link below. It helps with the upkeep of the site and it is always greatly appreciated.
Please know there is absolutely no obligation. Your readership and support means the world to me already.
With Gratitude,
Pat Fitzgerald
patman4u.com 