Blessington Lake, a place so surreal,
Where water joins land and matter joins meal,
A place of distinction renowned far and near,
A place of great solitude, but it covers a fear…
You see, this expanse of great water is hiding an act
A village that was covered long ago; it’s a fact.
Deep under the water it’s slumbering until.
The day it’s exposed again, resurrected, unfilled
Every now and again, when the weather’s so dry,
The depth of these waters, lowering at bit at a time,
Reveal the hamlet, usually beneath its cruel wake,
The streets and the cobbles, the houses in the lake.
When this comes about, bones surly move,
Rising up from the mud; it’s a fact, it’s been proved!
Pre-ambling about, amongst the ruins of their lives,
Rekindling old friendships, I tell you no lie.
The waters soon returning mire over it all,
Drowning the ghosts, the streets and the halls,
And no one will know or suspect that below,
Are the bones of lost loved ones asleep in that hole.