The moon over Belfast’s a gold
we’ve not exactly won
despite how regularly we’ve told
ourselves we’re second to none.
For we’re still seduced
by the thought of being cock of the roost
in our barnyard squabble.
Though it turns out the Northern Star
that dangles over the market square isn’t far
from itself being a bauble,
what we’ve taken time and
time again for a flawless diamond
has no less often left us feeling duped.
The peddler in the market square
selling fripperies and artificial flowers
may be just as dazzled by his own wares
as was Peter by his staying power.
Surely keeping watch means we listen
as well as look out for what doesn’t glisten –
all lent an extra frisson
by the frequent lists of our sloop?
Most ships of state that seem quite even-keeled
have in fact modelled themselves on the eel
and its own inbuilt wobble;
now we ourselves must learn to bend
so we more resolutely tend
to fly the confines of our coop.
What if the line towards which we’ve raced
is one more dragon-prow we’ve chased?
Although it seems we’ve almost sunk
we’ve never quite gone under.
What if the diamond that has graced
our sky is no more than paste?
We think the peddler works in junk
when his medium’s mostly wonder.
To find a way to break the mould
and cut through all the yarns we’ve spun
means borders we once physically patrolled
may be replaced by virtual ones.
Would that were true of the “peace” walls
that separate the Falls
and Shankill
and we took part in genuine dialogue
despite the legacy of mad dogs
snapping at our ankles.
We know how easily in midwinter
a stockpile of splinters
may form a splinter group.
The playwright lets a mad dog tread the boards
and maybe even saw the air
and out of such discord
finds consonance here and there.
Surely we must defy our gory categories –
what’s thought to come with our territory –
and make our story
a story we ourselves scoop?
Maybe it’s time to take as our plank
the merits of breaking rank
however much it rankles.
Nowhere has it been determined
our soliloquies and sermons
play on a constant loop.
What if our sneaking regard for the two-faced
hasn’t been totally misplaced?
There’s much to be said for lines being blurred
and an acceptable level of non-violence.
What if we based
all conversations on the fact our calls are traced?
We think the playwright works in words
when her medium’s largely silence.
For though we’ve sometimes run hot and cold
at least we’re not running guns,
loading the Asgard’s or Clyde Valley’s holds
with gelignite by the metric ton
until our skeleton crew
grew and grew and grew and grew
by sheer accrual.
What if we’ve been right to have held our nerve
and kept something in reserve
and I don’t mean laundering fuel.
We’ll all wake up much fresher
without labouring under the pressure
of yet another dawn swoop.
The plumber has long since swapped the doctrinaire
for the oblique
when he’s setting out to repair
a pipe that’s sprung a leak.
That a reservoir high in the Mournes
may be crowned in thorns
allows for the hope of renewal,
of millstones rolling
and our spirits extolling
the virtues of having so often drooped.
Surely there’s room for improvement
in a home where all our movements
have been met by counter-movements
including the movement of troops?
What if the bit of land that once seemed waste
where sentries posed and paced
might yet prove a fountainhead
for our grandsons and granddaughters?
What if we’ve had no more than a foretaste
of the sweetness that could be theirs post-haste?
We think the plumber works in lead
when his medium’s mainly water.
we’ve not exactly won
despite how regularly we’ve told
ourselves we’re second to none.
For we’re still seduced
by the thought of being cock of the roost
in our barnyard squabble.
Though it turns out the Northern Star
that dangles over the market square isn’t far
from itself being a bauble,
what we’ve taken time and
time again for a flawless diamond
has no less often left us feeling duped.
The peddler in the market square
selling fripperies and artificial flowers
may be just as dazzled by his own wares
as was Peter by his staying power.
Surely keeping watch means we listen
as well as look out for what doesn’t glisten –
all lent an extra frisson
by the frequent lists of our sloop?
Most ships of state that seem quite even-keeled
have in fact modelled themselves on the eel
and its own inbuilt wobble;
now we ourselves must learn to bend
so we more resolutely tend
to fly the confines of our coop.
What if the line towards which we’ve raced
is one more dragon-prow we’ve chased?
Although it seems we’ve almost sunk
we’ve never quite gone under.
What if the diamond that has graced
our sky is no more than paste?
We think the peddler works in junk
when his medium’s mostly wonder.
To find a way to break the mould
and cut through all the yarns we’ve spun
means borders we once physically patrolled
may be replaced by virtual ones.
Would that were true of the “peace” walls
that separate the Falls
and Shankill
and we took part in genuine dialogue
despite the legacy of mad dogs
snapping at our ankles.
We know how easily in midwinter
a stockpile of splinters
may form a splinter group.
The playwright lets a mad dog tread the boards
and maybe even saw the air
and out of such discord
finds consonance here and there.
Surely we must defy our gory categories –
what’s thought to come with our territory –
and make our story
a story we ourselves scoop?
Maybe it’s time to take as our plank
the merits of breaking rank
however much it rankles.
Nowhere has it been determined
our soliloquies and sermons
play on a constant loop.
What if our sneaking regard for the two-faced
hasn’t been totally misplaced?
There’s much to be said for lines being blurred
and an acceptable level of non-violence.
What if we based
all conversations on the fact our calls are traced?
We think the playwright works in words
when her medium’s largely silence.
For though we’ve sometimes run hot and cold
at least we’re not running guns,
loading the Asgard’s or Clyde Valley’s holds
with gelignite by the metric ton
until our skeleton crew
grew and grew and grew and grew
by sheer accrual.
What if we’ve been right to have held our nerve
and kept something in reserve
and I don’t mean laundering fuel.
We’ll all wake up much fresher
without labouring under the pressure
of yet another dawn swoop.
The plumber has long since swapped the doctrinaire
for the oblique
when he’s setting out to repair
a pipe that’s sprung a leak.
That a reservoir high in the Mournes
may be crowned in thorns
allows for the hope of renewal,
of millstones rolling
and our spirits extolling
the virtues of having so often drooped.
Surely there’s room for improvement
in a home where all our movements
have been met by counter-movements
including the movement of troops?
What if the bit of land that once seemed waste
where sentries posed and paced
might yet prove a fountainhead
for our grandsons and granddaughters?
What if we’ve had no more than a foretaste
of the sweetness that could be theirs post-haste?
We think the plumber works in lead
when his medium’s mainly water.
