Let us pause on the bridge
Before we cross over.
And let us see the moving waters
And what they conjure up for us.
Silvery ripples and shining reflections
Upon ourselves and the golden dreams
Of who we might become.
Beyond the gun, the fear
And the bully dog’s jaw.
And when we reach Ballytober
And the townland well
Let us look in as all children do
Curious for what they might find there.
And who might we see
Looking back at us?
Accursed deeds done
And guns hidden in bushes
Snug holes in the ground
And by gravestones.
We are all innocents
Until we remember
And own up to handing out
The bitterest of cups
To those long forgotten amongst us.
In a time when men were men
And women had no say
And even Mary had a lock upon her tongue.
When men were men
And women lit up the home
As all lamp light should
With restraint and forgiving hope.
When men were men
And hate was only a warm gun.
1922 and three.
When we did more to ourselves
Than any Black and Tan could.
These memories
Look back up at us
From out the waters
Waiting to be seen clearly
Before we can draw
Clean water from out of the well
And out of ourselves.
A northern Irish artist
Randall, once more, deluberately missing the pernicious evil and harm of colonialism, ethnic cleansing and state violence that pushed hurt people into resistance.
Yes it was horrible.
The reality of state violence and colonial rule under heavily armed militias and friendly gangs might merit a poetic word or two?
*deliberately. (Finger problems, not spelling).
no problem Gabriel. thanks for your respnse.
Poetry just comes sO I try to pass it on. thanks for taking the time to read it.
RSH.