Portadown

Portadown – where the Bann sighs beneath old stone bridges,
its waters whispering tales of linen looms and soot‑streaked mills,
the clang of the railway a steady heartbeat beside the towpath,
where lorries crawl past terraces whose bricks remember the hands that laid them.

Morning light drapes the market square in a soft, buttery glow,
stalls bursting with soda bread, sharp cheddar and the sharp tang of pickled onions,
while the echo of a distant flute hints at the Orange march yet to come,
banners unfurled like proud peacocks against a sky washed slate‑grey.

Evening settles over the canal, reflections trembling like broken glass,
children’s laughter ricochets off the ivy‑clad walls of the old town hall,
the scent of peat smoke curls from chimneys, mingling with the sweet perfume
of hawthorn hedges that line the quiet lanes where time seems to linger.

In Portadown, heritage is not a museum piece but a living thread,
woven into the fabric of everyday life – resilient, warm, and unmistakably home.