You, in your corner of Antrim, where your sea jewel emerald, a giant heaved up a causeway in
a story black as basalt, hexagonal to crystalise wrath from ocean;
and yet too short to reach my shore. He never thought of a land bridge, since you fret at
planks and ropes, in suspension between two cliffs, where fulmars glide, cackle with pride – in that Northern Irish accent…
You should be dreaming in Glasgow.
Here, we build brochs as watch towers from rounded stones to eye each movement from the sea.
Da Roost has declared us landlocked.
I made a fresh pot of veg soup with enough carrots, leek and kale; freed my coatrack from winter tales And polished taps to revive chrome…
A full spring clean I call redd-up.
I count minutes between two gusts, knot for windspeed around headlands where lights still blink and
Instead our world’s tied to bollards, silenced and still; locked inside docks, behind closed doors,
I too wish to forward the clock;
watch you sail past my island shore, as the sun rises in your eyes… Watch you glide across the pressgang, long corrugated corridor that reunites our words and smiles,
Instead, I listen to the wind…
What a start to the new decade, April and voar. Somebody unleashed a devil, a terrorist invisible that sweeps and snatches blindfolded…
And pray it spares you in Belfast.
© Nat Hall 2020