Over my shoulder and barely registering
the rolling news of football updates
and possible giant killing acts
without mercy, I read
your poem and I feel the kick
in the guts, the relentless
cry of foul and the whistle
of finger typed agony
as your blood lays invisible
in my palms.
Let her breathe I urge inwardly,
let her feel this emotion
and all around me is silent,
the publican’s wife sweeps the table clean,
my untouched tea now fast evaporating,
draining,
I probably will not ever return
to the place where five rivers meet
and that may mean I will not see your face
again, other than through the odd text,
or family updated picture, or should you travel
north to see me; when your life is complex
and comfortable, why would you waste time
leaving the valley in which we once roamed.
The rivers roll on with majesty
and I have sat by many a bank,
the tumble down grass, tumbled down upon
There is a chill, a feeling of the super-natural
when I hear your anthem being sang by the citizens
of the flag, resplendent in red and white, the colours
of victories past and battle hardened men,
of women, proud, noble and strong, perhaps by design
the strongest of them all, but the ones with rose-like cheekbones
standing to attention when something humorous happens,
the ones for whom the tears fall silently as justice is done.
The first stirrings of your anthem were audible on a Wednesday night