Moher Tower

Rachel Sanchez

In the west of Ireland atop the impenetrable walls of the Cliffs of Moher at the end of Hag’s Head sits the ruin of a tower. Moher Uí Ruis is its name, or the Moher Tower in the common tongue. Alone she sits, as day after day, wind and time whittle away at her exterior. The view from her tower is like no other. She has been a beacon to ward off invaders like Napoleon and to guide lost sailors on rough waters. She has been a refuge for many birds over the years and people looking to escape the harsh winds
and rain of the Atlantic. She has seen the silver fish dance in the distance as seals chase their prey. Enjoyed the sun on her cold rough exterior as it crossed the sky to lower into the dark waters before her. She greets the Man in the Moon when he shows his face. The emerald of the grass around her has begun to seep in through the cracks and sprout new life into her old stones. Countless hands have rounded out the sharp corners of her doorways as you cross into the interior. The lime stucco that had once covered the walls now lies crumbled on the stone floors.

In the olden days she would have been the talk of County Clare. Pristine with flags at each of the four corners of her battlements. A person always on watch, always present, looking out over the land. Now her stairs are crumbled, and no one looks from her worn battlements. No flags decorate the crowned head of her ruined masterpiece. Tourists snap pictures and enjoy the view, only to move on to something better or new. Kids are only interested in the electronic devices held in their hand and not the beauty of what is right before them. The shrug of a shoulder or a snapchat photo, then it is on to the next.

The tower does not feel the passing of time, she weathers it. She shall continue to count the stars at night and the people that pass by her barriers. She will stand as the lone watchman until her last stone withers into dust. She will harbor all that seek shelter within her walls. The animals that made their home in the cracks and crevasses shall be her only company on cold rainy nights. She will continue to watch over the sleeping seals as they sunbathe on the small beaches below. She will look to her sister
islands far off in the distance as they appear and disappear on foggy days. She will continue to weather the storms and hold off invaders. She is unmovable, rooted in this land of myth and magic. She will slowly become sand and earth. She will wash away and join the ocean and cover the land in a sheen of dust, to be carried to far off lands. One day, time will have its say, and the tower will lay herself upon the ground or tumble headlong into the dark waters. Until then, in the west of Ireland atop the
impenetrable walls of the Cliffs of Moher at the end of Hag’s Head sits the ruin of a tower. Moher Uí Ruis is her name.