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...
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.