Monday, 22 June 2009

Bringing it home

Three Fiesta doors pressed muffled shut

Like punches wrapped in towelled fist

The dent of gravelly footsteps crunch

Inside boundaries of rhododendron missed

3am provokes each flicked switch

To trail live curses in bleary wake

Not until the bolt rasps back

Does patterned pyjama armour take

- and grasp -

the third of five dull thuds

The Police Service of Northern Ireland say

they are investigating the shooting of

an unarmed man at his home in Shantallow

in the early hours of this morning.

They say his wife witnessed the attack.

In other news...

Mere words,


1 comment:

  1. This poem is pretty obvious I guess, written immediately after hearing a radio report about this sectarian killing. What you probably can't guess is that it was heard in my parents' kichen whilst on a visit 'home' to Northern Ireland.

    I've now lived half my life outside that country, but its prejudices and bigotry never fail to have an impact, even when it is just more of the same - mere words.