Whatever you say, say nothing by Samuel Dodson

The groaning echo of buried warriors holds itself confined in the mossy rocks within the ethereal tumulus. The deep mist which shrouds the shoulders of this place – this space – hangs on your eyelashes. Communal mythology would have you believe this within the confines of the hollow earth lies the entombed Celtic king. You stand in the mist which conceals the border that lies hundreds of feet away. As the hairs on the back of your neck peel themselves upward away from your skin, the superstition of danger becomes envinced in your mind.

It stands as a black crow upon a farmer’s broken fence post. It sounds like poetry, spoken from sore lips. It is a silence built upon the inability to express. Your eyes catch sight of a flash of silver and watch a magpie fleetingly sweep above your head and further into the mist.

Beyond the fog shrouded burial mound lies a field in which lost souls wash upon the grass as winds on a calm sea. The silence within it all captivating even the tides which crash against cliffs concealed by the field of the wandering ghosts. The old memory of your grandmother surfaces for an instant and is submerged again by dark ripples; skimming stones of your synthetic mind.

You find the entrance to the tumulus and crawl into the constricting passage which will lead you to the heart of it all. The limestone is too ancient and has acquired the ability to absorb light; the fossils within it the blue of heartbreak. As you pull yourself into the earth the vibrations of time-lost voices shivers in the rock and brings itself around you. Draped with the superstition you always felt, the sunlight seems far away from sight. Your memories become polluted with dreams, and all that remains is whether you continue on into the seams of this man-made, nature-strewn shadow.