We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare.
Meditations In Time Of Civil War, W.B. Yeats
There are barricades at both ends of the street.
They have been building for a couple of days –
a skip, a burned-out pick-up, rotten timber.
Someone appears at our door at dusk or dawn,
claiming to be from one side or the other,
begging, asking, demanding contributions –
that folding chair, this old garden bench,