A rusted ring embedded in a mooring post

            Marks the spot where ferrymen

            Offloaded their summer-Sunday cargoes

            Of 'hooded devotees' in search of health and healing.

            Rounds made, of three or nine,

            From east to west, following the motion of the sun.

            Stones, stacked in small mounds, tallied prayers.

            Pilgrims bathed their foreheads and hands in its waters

            And drank deeply of its cool, clear goodness.

            Rags of red or black

            Tied to its shady canopy of ash and elm.

            Left to flutter and fade, like leaves in the winter,

            Till they took up the wishes and woes of the bearer

            And carried them away on the wind.

            Only remnants now remain

            Of this 'fairy font' of wellness (which gave my place its name).

            A limestone plaque on the wall.

            The border of its beehive mound traced in brick beneath.

            Its sanctity suppressed in the name of 'progress'.

            Bithlán – this ancient spring of ritual and restoration,

            No longer nourishes the needs of those

            Who struggle to survive the marauding malady of our times,

            Or those in search of succour and of solace,

            Or those who seek to be healed and made whole again.