Larne

Larne’s harbour sighs beneath a slate‑grey sky,
Where fishing boats return with silvered tide,
Their nets a‑glint like thoughts that wander by
Along the wind‑kissed cliffs where gulls have cried.

The railway hums a steady, low‑key tune,
Carrying commuters past the old stone wall,
Past terraced houses blooming in June,
And shopfronts bright with teacakes, baps, and all.

Beyond the pier, the seaward stretch does gleam,
A ribbon of blue where Atlantic sighs,
While lovers walk the promenade, half‑dream,
Their footsteps echoing beneath the cries.

In Larne, the past and present softly blend—
A modest town where coast and community mend.