The Northern Gate by Randall Stephen Hall

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.

Dark shadows

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.

My lids.

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.

Still swinging.

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 ?

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