A quiet road in Donegal

is where I found this modest bridge,

a mundane thing built long ago

to cross a tiny mountain stream.

 

Beside it stands a chiselled plaque

with Gaelic words to tell the tale

of all those friends and families

that tragedy would separate.

 

A blight upon potato crops,

the staple food of common folks,

meant they would starve if they remained,

so most of them must leave the land.

 

They walked from towns along the coast

between the mountains to this point

where they would stop and bid farewell

to those they’d never see again.

 

It sits in silence nowadays,

and no one seems to understand

the sadness of its history,

this place they call the Bridge of Tears.