My Celtic Harp

My Celtic harp has been passed on, for eight generations,
It has fine and delicate carvings of the Gaelic nations.
My history looms in the past, like a child out of time,
I feel this, as my hands move over the craft and the design.

A story told to a child, it was made of old souls and bones,
If one listened very closely, one could hear ancestral moans.
It was said to play all alone, if one sang perfectly in tune,
The ancient songs of old Celtic rhymes from under a solstice moon.

My fingers touch where another’s had been in the hourglass of time,
I feel their presence always through every string and every rhyme.
Do they know that I am here, as I know and feel they are?
Or, are they far, far away beyond the smallest star?

I feel the crossroads of time in my history and my heritage,
Pushing me far back into the ages of old horse-drawn carriages.
From mother to daughter, we pass along, the harp and the songs,
Of our family and our history, so the stories are never gone.