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Poems published in the book, A new Belfast poetry map
[ Enjoying Belfast ] [ On Governor’s Bridge ] [ Times When We Cared ]
"Gorgeous chick!" said the bus driver
taking me from Central Station
to the town centre.
"Hey, looking good!"
said the homeless man
begging outside Primark.
The sun struck sparks
from the Central Library,
as I walked towards my Crime Writing Class
with Sam Millar.
A man winked at me and smiled
halfway down Royal Avenue.
Brightness is in the springing air.
I find myself grinning.
Belfast is enjoying itself.
Empty coke cans floating beneath the bridge,
and a clutter of leaves caught in them.
The street light strikes firework sparks from the metal.
Each leaf lives in the lights of passing cars.
The Lagan smell invades my head with wonder.
Every Saturday I walked up Oldpark Avenue,
five library books tucked under my arm,
(shifting them from side to side as I progressed),
to Oldpark Road, and turning left, down towards the town
past the bend in the road
(where one year at Hallowe’en I bought Bengal matches
in the shop tucked into the road’s crook; and at Easter
found various specimens to add to my collection
of chocolate Easter eggs)
to the Carnegie Library.
I went inside, and spent an hour or so
in a magic land, inhabited
by Geoffrey Trease, E. Nesbitt, Nancy Breary.
Coming out, I stood by the bus stop, and read
on a tin notice which must have been there
for a long time, "Drivers!
Let down the reins, get off the cart,
and don’t overload uphill!"
Yes, when I looked at the road,
I could see that it was a hill.
I wouldn’t have noticed, travelling by bus.
Beside me the trough,
empty now, used to be full of water,
for the thirsty horses.
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