Not black, alone on the motorway.
Passing the Maze prison the stench of my engine
Overheating is like gunpowder, spent shells,
Lingering, your dream of Irish freedom.
I climbed the mountain graveyard
Above the violent divided the city,
Above the peace-line that stood between us
In the living -room.
Your plot all weeds,
And wild grass cries out for order.
The fallen wooden cross bears no name;
But you are there. Like a sculptor
With clay I reach inward, my hands
As delicate as salmon wings riding
The white water, struggling
The strong currents of grief.
I brush the soiled tears from your eyes
And you wake in me, swimming
And glistening in mine. My hands
Shape the clay moulding our wounded past,
Emerging in the light on the stones.