Robert Greacen
A swathe of mist muffles the firs The wind's a north-east lash
Light by light indicts the dark. Images dissolve, come sharp again. Today some soldiers on patrol Prised up my childhood Marches, gunfire in the streets, Barriers to separate the tribes. This city, heir to an historic spite, Learns nothing, seldom forgets. The room grows dark, rain drums, The central heating doesn't work. I'd better go to bed for warmth. Perhaps I'll dream away the angst, The slogans and tomorrow's dead.
Page 68, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 28