Writer of Poetry, Screen Plays, Stage Plays & Fiction
Writer of Poetry, Screen Plays, Stage Plays & Fiction
The dying corporal was spread eagled
in his underpants, his executioners
and judges – a mob of fathers and sons –
dressed, as he had been, undercover,
in trainers, denims and a sweater.
Civil war, for almost a generation,
had burgeoned. Solutions receded. Rights
gained were matched by rights removed: all our freedoms
lessened so neighbours might vote, have jobs,
houses. Things did not make sense, only words.
‘Derry’ was a political statement.
Catching the last train on any Sunday night,
when I was a student, before The Troubles,
they would be there. I would notice them
in noisy farewells clustered near the bar:
the men, red faced, shouting companionably
with the drink, the women calming kids –
the cardboard suitcases, the carrier bags.
Changing at Crewe, there would be more of them
to join us for the early Irish Mail –
refreshment bars and ill-lit platforms full
of bothered,
DRIVING INTO THE DARK
DRIVING INTO THE DARK
WHAT THE HEART REMEMBERS
CIRCUS
THE CLARINET