Ards

On the quiet fringe of County Down,
Where sea‑kissed cliffs and heather crown,
Lies the Ards, a gentle sigh of land,
Where gulls carve silver threads through sand.

The lighthouse watches, steadfast, bright,
Guiding fishing boats through morning light,
While cottage walls of weathered stone
Hold whispers of the tide’s low moan.

Fields of barley sway in soft, salt‑kissed breeze,
And ancient ruts recall old Celtic trees.
Paths wind through gorse, a golden blaze,
Leading walkers to hidden coves and bays.

Evening drapes the horizon in mauve and grey,
The sun bows low, then slips away,
Leaving the Ards to dream in twilight’s hush—
A quiet jewel, a tranquil crush.