The Approach Poem by Mad Gone

Light were once the old bridge stood,
Now, new and reconditioned metal rails.
Old Lordy, saved our Dredge,
“It’ll be rebuilt, by Jove it should.”
The river now quite straight,
all but stony bridge and gate.
The mill hill silent of passing feet,
the river free of noisy fleet.


Enagh Lough with Yeats fairy folk,
Across the isle parallel compass points.
Wooden jetty’s now protrude,
and sleepy silent men conclude.
Far cry from the Battle of the Brae,
the river blood coloured from the clay?
Unaware treasure seeker,
for swords are where they lay.


The little school upon the hill,
no longer barely recognisable.
Each generation, something new,
remembered by the passing few.
Old Johnny Duff’s a tale to tell,
children beware the covered well.
He was a butcher, don’t you know,
faith killed his kin, so dare not go.


Our grand and stately church,
stands out upon its grassy hill.
Tombs lined with golden coin,
no longer guarded by the Sons of Sion.
Crumbling stone walls surround this land,
new constructs gone, as passing sand.
But still the message laid near lawn,
O’Neill the warrior glares sternly on.


Old schools, new schools,
play the worn out record.
The battle line now gone,
but the children still look forlorn.
As a youth you scuff and scorn,
Of this dreaded, dreary, dull and hateful place.
As an adult you learn to accommodate,
a pensioner, old men appreciate, but sadly much too late!