O tranquil mirrors of a crafted dream,
Ye lakes of Craigavon, born of mortal hand,
In nineteen-seventy’s dawn, a gleam
Of vision carved thee from the sodden land.
No ancient springs thy waters did beget,
But engineers, with steel and sweat, did strive,
To tame the floods that fields would oft beset,
And grant a flood-born peace where towns might thrive.
Thou hold’st the rain in gentle, balanced sway,
A guardian ‘gainst the deluge uncontained,
Where once the Closet River’s surge held play,
Thy depths now cradle calm, by man ordained.
The willow weeps where farmland used to lie,
The wildfowl skim o’er waves of modern birth,
And paths, once dreamed, now circle ‘neath the sky,
A parkland wrought from Ulster’s tender earth.
O ye, who blossomed late with verdant grace,
Ten thousand trees in ninety-eight took root,
A woodland haven rose in thy embrace,
With orchids rare and butterflies to boot.
The lark ascends, the heron stands in wait,
While children’s voices ripple through the air—
A refuge born where history’s tides abate,
To mend the soul with beauty debonair.
Yet, as the poet’s eye doth pierce the veil,
Thy stillness hides a tale of fleeting care,
For though thy birth was wrought to never fail,
Time’s gentle hand doth weave both joy and wear.
So let me linger on thy grassy shore,
Where past and present blend in tender gleam,
And drink thy peace till life’s last breath is o’er,
A mirror vast of nature’s boundless theme