Glenavon

Glenavon

In the hush of twilight over Glenavon’s vale,
Where mist entwines with heather’s purple flare,
The river sighs a soft, enduring tale,
Reflecting sky’s pale, ever‑changing air.

Old stone walls stand like quiet sentinels,
Guarding the secrets of the silent glen,
Their moss‑clad faces whisper ancient spells,
As curlews call and nightingales then

Weave lullabies through bracken‑kissed breezes,
Carrying the scent of peat and rain‑kissed earth,
Each stone a stanza, each ripple pleases
The heart that seeks the quiet, humble worth

Of hills that cradle dreams in emerald folds,
Of waters that remember every footfall’s tread—
Glenavon, a poem that the landscape holds,
A living verse where peace is gently spread.