Three Poems

I'll stand you by the Mourne Wall
And it will be Easter. Sheep and mist
And a wind that would blow you to Ballynahinch.

I hang on your every word
But the wind is too greedy, and as curious as I am.
I have to catch them in flight before they cartwheel down the
                                                       valley

'Jesus' 'Cold' 'Viking' 'Afterworld'

And I would become a tent for all the winds of this gully
To keep them off you. Then, blown huge but still
In range, I would hear again your vision of hills.

This city settled on you in layers of days
That brought a grounding with them, that sense of knowing
Where your feet belonged. Memory built the way
In which you recognised the place, decided how much your
...