Next Project...

With the history book now in its final stages I have begun a return to my oldest project - poetry. In the coming year or so I will be releasing a collection of poems long overdue - Entitled the 'Boyne's Lament' - I shared below a very, very very early draft of the titular poem - Ironically this is the last poem written for the collection but the first shared... The final draft will not look like this but these are the stepping stones before the foundation is laid..

The Boyne's Lament
Old and wide, silver-threaded, deep, Born of mist where shadows creep. I knew the tongues of those long lost, Felt the frost of battles crossed. Newgrange stones still mark my birth, Their shadows stretch across the earth.

I bore the Salmon, silver, wise, A whisper cast in drifting skies. Fingers burned with lore once bright, Now fading embers in the night. No wisdom left in waters deep, Only echoes that learn to weep.

I lapped at doors of ancient halls, Where feet once danced and banners called. The songs still hum beneath my flow, Murmured notes of long ago. The Táin still lingers in my stream, A hero’s wrath, a dream unseen.

The bulls still rage in whispered breath, A tale of love, of war, of death. The weight of time bends back the past, Through ripples deep, reflections cast. A river’s bones, a silent tongue, Holding all yet speaking none.

Mellifont’s stones, worn smooth by prayer, Soft with hands no longer there. Psalms rose up, then fell away, Where silence rests in ruined clay. Monasterboice, the crosses stand, Tall in vigil, carved by hand. Yet even saints could not defend The lives that war would never mend.

No borders bind the things I keep, No single tongue within me speaks. I knew the hands of builders old, And those who drowned in hunger’s cold. I carried stories, cradled loss, Held the weight of broken trust.

the troubles came, the streets ran red, A shadowed land where silence bled. The echoes of a bullet’s flight, His love fell silent in the night. In my arms they dared to stay, A last embrace beyond the fray. I held the grief, the unheard calls, Beneath the viaduct, where shadows call.

But worse than war is silent blight, A poisoned soul, a starless night. No warriors now upon my bridge, But lost ones lean upon its ridge. Their pockets full of powder white, Their spirits drowned in neon light.

Once I was a silver thread, A lifeline strong where seekers tread. Now factories spew their tainted bile, And silence haunts my every mile. The voices lost in drug-fuelled dreams, The drowning sobs, the choking screams.

The bridges where the lovers met, Now bear the weight of lost regret. For those who stand upon my ledge, And whisper sorrow from the edge. A final step, a final sigh, And still my waters wonder why.

Now the salmon flinch at the filth, The reeds droop low with sickened breath. I slide past pylons, thick with rust, Through waters clotted black with dust. What ran with silver now runs grey, And still I carry dead away.

O children, hear my cry, My waves grow weak, my bed runs dry. Once I was a thread unspun, Weaving past and yet-to-come. But rivers turn, and tides will rise, A voice once lost may yet be wise.
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For I am water, old and wide, And still my depths refuse to hide. Should hands reach out to heal my scars, I’ll shine once more beneath the stars.