The Back Burn Poem by Liam ó Comáin
The Back Burn
On the verge of town
By a narrow stream
We often sought a tan
Where 'tinkers'halted
For a while and mother
Watched us bottling spricks.
Through an arch nearby
Trains daily passed
To and from Dungiven
And if a breeze blew
From the nearby dump
There was no horse shoe
Playing...
Alas, no more that common patch
For a new road hides the flow
But in memory, there, I often pass
With buttermilk from Enagh.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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8/29/2026 12:03:03 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
