The Yew of Muckross

Some trees are more than wood and leaves – they are guardians, standing long after the walls built around them have crumbled to moss. This ancient yew grows at the very heart of Muckross Abbey’s cloister, its roots tangled in centuries of prayer, and silence.

_{Ancient Yew Tree that has grown in that spot from before the now ruined abbey was built}

It stands witness to the four Kerry Poets remembered there: Séafraud Ó Donnchadha, Aodhagán Ó Rathaille, Eoghan Rua Ó Súilleabháin, and Piaras Feiritéar – Who gave his life for his people and his tongue. It sees visitors come and go, some stopping to listen, some only stopping for a photo. It holds the quiet that birds do not break, and the names that time does not forget.

This poem is written not from how we see the tree, but how the tree sees us – slow, steady, unhurried and full of memory. And the land never hurries its stories, neither does this old guardian.

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Glossary

lúr Mhucrois = The Yew of Muckross; iúr = Yew Tree

Aisling – A vision poem, a classic form in Irish Poetry, often dreaming of a better future for Ireland.

Cloister – The covered walkway, surroundingan open courtyard in a monastry, like the space where this yew tree stands.

The Four Kerry Poets – The four great Gaelic Poets honoured there:

Piaras Feiritéar (c. 1600 – 1653) Chieftain and poet, hanged by Cromwell’s forces for defending his lands and his language.

Séafraidh Ó Donnchadha (c. 1640 – 1707 ) Jacobite poet and chief of the O’Donoghues.

Aodhagán Ó Rathaille (c. 1670 – 1729) master of the Aisling form, the last5 great bard of the old Gaelic order.

Eoghan Rue Ó Súilleabháin (c. 1748 – 1784) Poet, Soldier and teacher, celebrated for his wit and warmth.

Irish Lines from the Poem: Lúr na gcuimhne, ní dhearna mé dearmad bronnann san aoibhneas bronnann san suaimhneas

Meaning: Yew of Memory, I have never forgotten, I bestow peace.

Pronunciation Guide: Loor na gwiv-nuh, / nee yar-nuh may dyur-mud, / brone-unn san soo-uhv-nus

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The Yew of Muckross




I do not beat the quick beat of hearts;
my pulse is the slow spread of rings,
roots knotted deep where friars walked,
where old stone breathes and clings.


No wing settles here, no nest is woven
through the dark weave of my boughs;
I keep this silence for those who pass,
for vows that outlast those who vowed.


I have sheltered poets in my shadow:
one fierce,
one faithful,
one laughing,
one grieving;
each left words the wind remembers,
long after voices faded from the air.


One walked the road where no path led,
hanged for a truth he would not sell;
their words took root where stones lie still,
and outlived every hand that sought their silence.


I watch the moss climb name and date,
watch strangers pause where silence waits;
legs folded like prayers not yet learned,
while sunlight laughs through ancient leaves.


They lift their eyes to catch the light,
frame smiles beneath my shadowed crown;
they seldom know how deep I reach,
how many names my roots hold down.


I do not judge.
I do not chide.
I simply stand,
and shelter time;
the wind remembers every psalm,
though no bell calls the hour.


Lúr na cuimhne,
fréamh i gcloch,
brainse san aer.
I remember
because I have never left.






Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald 
All Rights Reserved 

Thank you for reading this post and remember:

“Walk slowly enough, and the land will tell you what it remembers.”

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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.

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