The Bridges of Abbeyshrule.

 

Where Malachy's men of brown and beads

Cistercian monks of cowl and care
Settled close by Inny's reeds,
Built a house of stone and prayer.
 
Segovia's echo, fifty five yards long,
Pick handle shiny, Paddy's spit,
To honour an English Lord Lieutenant
In Dublin Castle, not worth a Whit.
 
The bridge a balcony, banks the stalls
To river's never ending play.
By night a loving lullaby
Full blooded drama day on day.
 
Further east another bridge
Shell hump on the unhurried snail,
Either side peat lands; no roads
The Bog Bridge, untold tale.
 
Rex brought me fishing at Scally's Bridge
For throw back roach and spiky perch,
The quivering eel fried sweet in lard
In cast iron pan, smoking on birch.
 
Morris's bridge or is it Quinn's,
Straddle on Royal back so long,
A roundabout before it's time
Tuning fork for water's song.
 
Webb's Bridge is the silent sentry
Grey rainbow of the duck and drake
Guarding the sacred harbour walls
Public passway, local lake.
 
And heading west is Dreaper's Bridge
Where I knocked on keeper's door,
Idle the house, stolid the lock,
Keenaghan's here no more.
 
Roads and hills, paths and crossings,
Near Colehill of home and school,
In Bulfin's rambles, special places,
The timeless bridges of Abbeyshrule.

 (Dedicated to Turquoise who was a recent visitor to Abbeyshrule)