This is for Sue Vincent’s photo prompt.
The old folk said nothing when they sauntered past in their baggy, tatty-looking clothes, their piercings, tattoos, shaven heads, long plaits or thick beards, all laughing, jabbering about mother goddesses and earth renewal. The old folk looked darkly and turned away. Some shrugged, some shook their heads sadly. Some muttered about what the gardai were thinking of letting the eejits go ahead with their nonsense. But it was Muldoon’s field and he’d let anyone traipse across it, as long as they steered clear of the bullocks and paid for their places on the campsite.
The followers of Mother Danu set up their vigil in the tiny room at the end of the short passage. It wasn’t an imposing grave, no king or queen had been buried there, but that did not mean it had no importance. The disciples had no notion who occupied the passages beneath the hill. They insisted the room was a temple to the sun god or the moon goddess, or was it both? Old Peig had tried to tell the ignorant fuckers.
Continue reading here: Microfiction #writephoto: Celebration