Old, Old Bridges of Ireland
Morning slips across the old stone bridge like a quiet apology.
Its arches hold back the tide and carry small lives forward—boots muddy from fields, a bike rattling home, a wave of Atlantic wind that smells of rain.
It doesn’t boast; it just endures, stitched into the green like a seam.
Standing here, you feel time soften—a place built to outlast our hurry, asking only that we cross gently.
Old, Old Bridges of Ireland
Morning slips across the old stone bridge like a quiet apology.
Its arches hold back the tide and carry small lives forward—boots muddy from fields, a bike rattling home, a wave of Atlantic wind that smells of rain.
It doesn’t boast; it just endures, stitched into the green like a seam.
Standing here, you feel time soften—a place built to outlast our hurry, asking only that we cross gently.