There’s no good eating in Bream,

But, sure, they don’t mind.

Grazing between the bulrushes

Herding through the glar

Like their cousins above –

Friesians dandering on lush slopes

Where streams fill

This giant’s glacial bowl.

How does it begin?

A handsome, fluid muscularity

Bursts from Enniskillen’s metered grasp,

Impatient to be through Portora’s lock,

Twisting round islands,

Unminted, mysterious,

Or made pagan and holy by turn,

Then straightens, widens, broadens,

Into something truly reverential.

These lakes held a truce

In Troubled times -

Earthly malice having little claim

In playgrounds for Lapwings - 

Shy, harmless waders,

Patrolling the reeds at Roscor,

Or lacing a perfect spring evening

With crazy, tumbling songflight.

Standing on the blade of Magho snaps,

You finally see this wet miracle end to end,

And feel a discount majesty - 

A joy as wide and close as the Atlantic.

We are water people here.

And the day that’s in it,

Is always in Lough Erne.