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Rain

I saw a piece of rain-soaked paper
that said BEAST on it.
A step closer revealed it to say
BELFAST.

​Remembrance

These are my people:
I will make the pilgrimage west
to the site of carnage
and lay prayers for their rest.

And I will see the blood
seep between blasted wood.

They try to take my people
in name of their bloody cause
to illustrate a message
that the campaign will never pause.

It has been drawn out with their limbs,
names now troubled pseudonyms.
Picture
'Spirit of Belfast' sculpture by Dan George, Cornmarket

Rivers

I walk the banks you casually grace
and admire the soft wonder
flowing through my day.

You are the ebb of the Lagan,
the Farset, Blackwater,
the forest starlet, at once
the old man resting with his wisdom
and the young at eternal play.

There is no need to conjure
the faeries and nymphs of other tales,
I have my small piece of magic in you,

watching with a calm heart
and a sunlit smile,
I bow gently to
your elemental majesty.

Roads

The road out of this town
is elusive: a dirt track
through marshland, a meadow path,
a cobblestone street, twisting river
forming banks from broken earth,
searching for the sea.

I followed the water,
hoping not to find a delta
or the mouth of the bay,
but for captured rain
to turn into itself, creating
a perfect circle, a circle of distance,
of indifference to take
out of this town and afford me
a variant of viewpoint.
​