Whispers of the Boyne

Whispers of the Boyne

written by: Julian Lee

 

Where Bóinn dared to seek the well’s deep light,
The sacred waters surged with fateful grace,
They broke her form but not her nameless place,
She flows immortal, veiled in morning white.

Through mist and meadow, ancient truths remain,
The druids knew her voice in grove and stone,
Their chants now gone, yet never quite unknown,
The Boyne still hums the echoes of their reign.

She curls near hills where kings once claimed the mound,
Where spiral tombs still watch the skies unfold,
And tales of suns and stars are carved in gold,
Though time has hushed the chants, it keeps their sound.

At Oldbridge fields, the river’s waters knew
The clash of steel, the cannon’s thundering cry,
The blood of faiths that could not see eye to eye,
Still mingled in her tide, both false and true.

Yet past the ghosts, the Boyne flows soft and wide,
Through mossy banks and willows bowed in prayer,
A goddess still, unburdened by despair,
She wears the centuries like quiet pride.

O river wise, whose depth no plough could find,
You move through myth and war with equal grace,
A mirror held to Ireland’s changeless face,
Still whispering to those who stand and mind.