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16 October 2014
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Brendan McMahon

My name is Brendan McMahon and I am a retired Engineering Lecturer, I took early retirement four years ago to do the things I have not had time for previously, including writing.

I have been writing for a few years and I have had a few stories published in Irelands Own, Ulla’s Nib and Castlreagh Anthology.

The River by Brendan McMahon


It rises, a small fissure weeping,
Way-up in the higher ground,
The clear water from a spring trickles,
Spreading dampness all around.

A puddle here, a puddle there,
A squelchy patch of earth ensues,
Then a small rivulet leads the trickle,
Onward the landscape to transfuse.

Scrawny cattle trample its route,    
As it traverses the hilly terrain,
Wild flower and insects nestle its brink,
Cuckoos and curlews cherish its domain.

It cuts its way through rock and silt,
As it meanders along its random course,
And oozes through the sodden turf.
Its energy invigorate, a rising force.

In search of freedom and release,
Ditch water and tributary they subscribe,
And many leagues onward, an ample flow,
Of peat brown water, deep and wide.

In early spring as nature rekindles,
In gravel beds as small parr blossom,
Frogs assemble to natures call,
And frogspawn ensures their continuum.

As April showers thrash landscape and vale,
And wild life evolves from the riverbed,  
Wild trout gorge on the transient forms,
As they make a break from their watery redd.

The birds they wash in the early light,
And shake their plumage in the rising sun,
They sing their song in overhanging branches,
Or forage for insects and mayfly dun.

Cattle cool in its aqueous shallows,
As the aqua vitae tootles along,
Its perpetuate murmur and chuckle so sweet,
Its contentment assured in babbling song.

Alas its time is well nigh spent,
The estuary beckons like a great wide portal,
Its energy diffused into the tidal brine,
As it’s swallowed up with victor’s chortle.

 


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