AT THE LAKESIDE

In the wetlands of Fermanagh where the

Heron stalks its prey,

The Mallard quacks and paddles in the

newness of the day;

With reeds gently swaying, caressed

by winds that blow,

To dance with lapping waters

sweet and low.

Tranquillity of beauty in a special

blend so rare,

The generous harvest of God’s bounty

scattered there;

For me to look in wonder at the

Heron on the shore,

Before graceful flight away from me

once more.  

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