History of Sorts

Morning spills gently over Limerick town,
A soft gold light where the River Shannon runs down,
Whispering past bridges, calm and wide,
Carrying the hush of the turning tide.

The sky wears blue like it means to stay,
Not a cloud to trouble the tender day,
And blossoms wake in quiet delight,
Petals catching the newborn light.

Along the paths where the old streets bend,
Stone and story together blend,
Footsteps echo, unhurried, free,
In rhythm with spring’s soft symphony.

A breeze drifts in from fields beyond,
Bringing the scent of earth newly fond
Of life again, of growing things,
Of green returning on quiet wings.

Birdsong stitches the air with ease,
Threading joy through budding trees,
Each note a promise, bright and clear,
That warmer days are settling here.

And in this hour, the world feels kind—
A simple peace, a steady mind,
As Limerick wakes in golden hue,
And morning feels entirely new.