Crossing

PŒdraig J. Daly
We are late and long Crossing this unfriendly city,
Walking on boards above the mud, Climbing mounds of rubble.
Everywhere there are huddles of people around fires; Grey ash blowing, suffocating smoke.
We have found no one to save us in this place:
The inhabitants are dour and bittertongued.
Fish swim to sea in combat suits
And dogs are born with mackerel heads
Page 76, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 28