We all get to poetry and song from different angles
And our life experiences walk in the door behind us
To stand around the edge of the room.
Waiting for us to call them.
Call them up
With the right tune.
The northern gate I stepped through
Is where I entered in, the outsider’s gate.
Informed me with the rattle of the bin.
So it’s my way, my route to climb
Branch, beam and boot.
To mine, to mine outsider’s words.
Shovels full of bent metal type.
My Ireland is a different thing all right.
A dark plate, a remembered hinge.
Rusted but active.
Fish and chips all heaped with salt
E number’s and grease to fill my vault.
To choke me up and make me cough out
Ragged words of belonging.
But will anyone believe a Northern Prod
Dressed in green patches ?