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Stood I there, that last day, On an iron bridge... An aqueduct by design, Where, looking dreamily out over The Ernes Lower Lough, My compressed shadow Momentarily paused - To contently recline: Amidst coy Junes radiant beams of sweet benign! All was stilled, all was hushed, Save vast reed beds sided by the Shallow hills of Lisbellaw; And I am lost to enchantment Of such beguiling thoughts - Then noon stumped up... Squatting idly down on The far eastern shore. Stirred bloods mixed and Glowed, Risen inside the linings Of warmed and prominent veins, Starkly contrasting against a Bleached and weathered rail of Coarse and twisted grains; Whereon, my hands staid by Wonderment, I dissected my solitary years Of three singular and two score More; When, suddenly, down the narrow Lane: The loudening sounds of Motoring - Progressing steadily along Emanating from a diesels engines High-torque drawl. From this carriage alighted an Elderly man - But what a giant of a man who Now stood before! With shoulders like a Donegal Bull - He must have still stood well Over Six foot- four. And with a courteous nod of the Head To an impassioned peroxide Blonde, Whos ample Bosom could bring Comfort To any mans bed - Would such that desire should Implore, Stepping assuredly away, Gently closed the big cars door. Here was a gentleman schooled In concision; He a masterly exponent in the art Of communication Made more effective by Elimination of redundancy; Economy of language, economy of Movement... Deliberate, terse, and very much Versed, In this, his brevity of Installed incumbency. The thin lines of orange and Mauve, Tracing like fizzing peat turf Flame, That squared within his pale Blue shirt, Criss-crossing at right angles Across His torsos colossal frame; Where one could plainly see, With merely just a single glance, Demonstration of a mighty fulcrum Centred by the heavy silvered Buckle - Whose leather belt drew in at the Neatly pressed pleats Of the softly blackened corduroy Pants. Compromised somewhat, And anticipating a reaction That might be considered rather awkward and a little adverse... Suggested by the immense manner Of ambling approach, I stumbled over meaningless Words As I struggled for something, However nonsensical, To almost apologetically broach:- "There is rather few Bream", Said I - "But the river is brimming over With plentiful good sized Roach"! A quizzical look flickered and then Mapped itself Over that impassive face, A look that younger or more Foolish folks Might have mistakenly Misinterpreted as an arrogant Reproach. Stared he down into the glare Of the rippled depths... As if examining the thinness of My mortal soul; Stared he distractedly across The bays great expanse As if imploring unto mysterious Currents, Swimming with beguiling Nivian In swirling dalliance, That may offer up, like Excalibur - Some fantastic vision to behold! Intently pondering; Perhaps, I reasoned, In search of His forefathers soothing muses of Old Drawn from legend of folklore: Doubtless could fortify depleted wit... And thereby his heart console; Wherefore, in slow response... The worthiness of this bridge he Didst prepare, Therefore - to so virtuously extol! A dialect, commanded by Measured brogue, That over me enveloped Like fog upon Cuilcaghs mystical Hills of continually eroding Sandstones, Developed through ancestral Enhancement... Indelibly immersed in Fermanaghs Guttural and broad undertones; Enriched by successive generations Rejoicing in their Heavenly bower: Now just buried bones Rehearsed and blessed in public Liturgies Delivered under Alberts great Tower - Upon whose mouldering caskets The bells striking chimes So forcefully atones; And a voice brought hence to this Place, A voice born to converse in Singularly articulated lines... Fortified by propriety of grace... Whence he spoke:- "GOOD WORK - DONE BY GOOD MEN - FROM OLDEN TIMES"! Without more ado, and uncaring of An answer, He turned and strode away; Leaving me feeling, During that brief intrusion of Heavenly interplay, As if this had been one of Gods Emissaries descended, During zenith of Prime Meridian, Upon this devoid and hushed Highway. Quickly re-ensconced, As if demanded by higher Authority To react swiftly through Necessity of immediate response, Bridling horsepower once again Reined; Mighty pistons, growling to life, Contained - Within the exploding bore and all Its fiery strife! Wherein the cast block: Pivotal rods pushing down hard upon A ground cranks bolted constrains - When powering my receding vision Away... Away into the diminishing dusts of Hosannas racing refraines. Left alone, With head bowed in silent Deference... For the ruminations of an older And wiser mans preference, I knew that I would forever Remember This revered and most hallowed Day. For now committed to mind - Be that Bridges steadfast and Enduring designs... And those eternal words... "GOOD WORK - DONE BY GOOD MEN - FROM OLDEN TIMES"! A TRUE STORY THAT HAPPENED TO ME 16 YEARS AGO.

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The Giant of Lisbellaw

Stood I there, that last day, On an iron bridge... An aqueduct by design, Where, looking dreamily out over The Ernes Lower Lough, My compressed shadow Momentarily paused - To contently recline: Amidst coy Junes radiant beams of sweet benign! All was stilled, all was hushed, Save vast reed beds sided by the Shallow hills of Lisbellaw; And I am lost to enchantment Of such beguiling thoughts - Then noon stumped up... Squatting idly down on The far eastern shore. Stirred bloods mixed and Glowed, Risen inside the linings Of warmed and prominent veins, Starkly contrasting against a Bleached and weathered rail of Coarse and twisted grains; Whereon, my hands staid by Wonderment, I dissected my solitary years Of three singular and two score More; When, suddenly, down the narrow Lane: The loudening sounds of Motoring - Progressing steadily along Emanating from a diesels engines High-torque drawl. From this carriage alighted an Elderly man - But what a giant of a man who Now stood before! With shoulders like a Donegal Bull - He must have still stood well Over Six foot- four. And with a courteous nod of the Head To an impassioned peroxide Blonde, Whos ample Bosom could bring Comfort To any mans bed - Would such that desire should Implore, Stepping assuredly away, Gently closed the big cars door. Here was a gentleman schooled In concision; He a masterly exponent in the art Of communication Made more effective by Elimination of redundancy; Economy of language, economy of Movement... Deliberate, terse, and very much Versed, In this, his brevity of Installed incumbency. The thin lines of orange and Mauve, Tracing like fizzing peat turf Flame, That squared within his pale Blue shirt, Criss-crossing at right angles Across His torsos colossal frame; Where one could plainly see, With merely just a single glance, Demonstration of a mighty fulcrum Centred by the heavy silvered Buckle - Whose leather belt drew in at the Neatly pressed pleats Of the softly blackened corduroy Pants. Compromised somewhat, And anticipating a reaction That might be considered rather awkward and a little adverse... Suggested by the immense manner Of ambling approach, I stumbled over meaningless Words As I struggled for something, However nonsensical, To almost apologetically broach:- "There is rather few Bream", Said I - "But the river is brimming over With plentiful good sized Roach"! A quizzical look flickered and then Mapped itself Over that impassive face, A look that younger or more Foolish folks Might have mistakenly Misinterpreted as an arrogant Reproach. Stared he down into the glare Of the rippled depths... As if examining the thinness of My mortal soul; Stared he distractedly across The bays great expanse As if imploring unto mysterious Currents, Swimming with beguiling Nivian In swirling dalliance, That may offer up, like Excalibur - Some fantastic vision to behold! Intently pondering; Perhaps, I reasoned, In search of His forefathers soothing muses of Old Drawn from legend of folklore: Doubtless could fortify depleted wit... And thereby his heart console; Wherefore, in slow response... The worthiness of this bridge he Didst prepare, Therefore - to so virtuously extol! A dialect, commanded by Measured brogue, That over me enveloped Like fog upon Cuilcaghs mystical Hills of continually eroding Sandstones, Developed through ancestral Enhancement... Indelibly immersed in Fermanaghs Guttural and broad undertones; Enriched by successive generations Rejoicing in their Heavenly bower: Now just buried bones Rehearsed and blessed in public Liturgies Delivered under Alberts great Tower - Upon whose mouldering caskets The bells striking chimes So forcefully atones; And a voice brought hence to this Place, A voice born to converse in Singularly articulated lines... Fortified by propriety of grace... Whence he spoke:- "GOOD WORK - DONE BY GOOD MEN - FROM OLDEN TIMES"! Without more ado, and uncaring of An answer, He turned and strode away; Leaving me feeling, During that brief intrusion of Heavenly interplay, As if this had been one of Gods Emissaries descended, During zenith of Prime Meridian, Upon this devoid and hushed Highway. Quickly re-ensconced, As if demanded by higher Authority To react swiftly through Necessity of immediate response, Bridling horsepower once again Reined; Mighty pistons, growling to life, Contained - Within the exploding bore and all Its fiery strife! Wherein the cast block: Pivotal rods pushing down hard upon A ground cranks bolted constrains - When powering my receding vision Away... Away into the diminishing dusts of Hosannas racing refraines. Left alone, With head bowed in silent Deference... For the ruminations of an older And wiser mans preference, I knew that I would forever Remember This revered and most hallowed Day. For now committed to mind - Be that Bridges steadfast and Enduring designs... And those eternal words... "GOOD WORK - DONE BY GOOD MEN - FROM OLDEN TIMES"! A TRUE STORY THAT HAPPENED TO ME 16 YEARS AGO.