Padraig 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