M

Markets

Bring in the unidentified and the lost,
the fallen, the two hundred and fifty-five,
we shall not abandon them in this hour.

In here, we’re used to asking ‘at what cost?’
but none should pay this much to stay alive,
all of us were caught in that fierce shower.

Relatives arrive to inspect the dead:
they hunt for their missing, last seen awake,
discard strange faces like unwanted goods.

You see the eyes scan, the shake of the head,
a purchase no one is ready to make,
then all of a sudden, their search concludes:

they’re freshly laid out, all bloodied and bold,
a couple of young souls, recently sold.


Following heavy German bombing of Belfast on Easter Tuesday 1941, St George’s Market was used as an emergency mortuary. Some 700 people were killed during the raids with 255 bodies brought to the market for identification.  Not all of the dead were identified and a public funeral of the unclaimed dead took place on 21 April 1941. After separate Catholic and Protestant services were held at the market, thousands lined the streets as the cortege passed by on its way to both Milltown and the City cemeteries.

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Meteorology

Two pairs of socks, I tell you, and I still felt
the frozen pavement spit up inside of me.
God help any poor bugger that slips in that,
but you’re be sure to get right back up again:
you wouldn’t want to be lying down in that
for too long. I’ll tell you, it was snow and ice
as domineering as spiteful Poseidon was
to the waves; and you’ll believe me
for surely you felt the minus twenty air
smack against your barren face too.
I needed a hood for my white cheeks
in minus twenty weather. The weatherman
said it’s going to last till May, I tell you,
no kidding. Thermometers don’t exaggerate.

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Minnowburn

…and there was you
and there was me, by sapling brooks
and flooded trees, asking why do
they bend toward the river's heart.
I did not know; still do not horde
any witted answer in my apple cart.
Just speculate.

           And there was you
by a farm gate, looking for cows
I sensed were there, with slow footsteps
as our eye browsed the hill with care,
across the crest; some evidence
in the wire fence of cattle there.
We thought it best to turn back, lest
they grew disturbed.

          And there was you
in the suburbs, and me with map
across my lap, with memory
losing compass, our direction
somewhat unsure; knew it was south
or maybe north. Now lost, alas,
but adventure secure. Walked on
until bearings gave correction.
Then turning back.

          And there was you
with my rucksack, a simple snack
but sufficient for us ramblers.
Riverbank pause, then on we went
over the dales, through the briars
back to the old tumbledown house,
knowing we were now heading south.
Knowing that dark was half-a-day
away, but where was the car parked?
We did not care.

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Motorways

The creek of rubber
pressed against wet glass,
train turbulence,

crack of suspension over tarmac,
ubiquitous cry of gears
shifting in the cold:
 
all these things can shake the mind
from the solitude of journey,
speeding down motorways,
never discovering
the next stop.