belfast on a spring evening

this rotting place will turn to black soon
the sun has bled its way to sleep
behind the jagged edges
of the burnt out houses.

there are flags in the air
swaying on their coloured strings
as if they were something special
as if they have a right to be there,
hanging on the chipped lamp posts.
as if this were a party and they
the decorations on the fireplace
reminding the guests why they came.

there is that special smell
that permeates every dusk
in a turmoiled city
the smell that somewhere
trouble is happening and someone
is passing worn money into hands
with muddy fingernails and calloused palms,
the smell that somewhere
a bored youth is chosing a cause and
picking his target with a gun barrell.

and i have left the comfort of a warm fire
a soft chair, a hot dinner and i have gathered
my keys and slipped on my shoes and come outside
to breathe this sharp air,
cooling as cold water on a tired morning,
for the last time,
to walk past the newagents
where i learnt how to steal
and how to give back
to walk past the pub and feel the laughter
and feel embraced by it.
and to smile goodbye to my youth
on street corner ornamented
with chewing gum.

there are rustles in the trees
as a sharp wind races through the city
and picks up the plastic bags and the petals
and the collar of my coat and the strands of my hair
and i feel the wind in my bones
and in my heart and in the tips of my
cold fingers that i stuff into my pockets.

and i know that there is hate
there is hate on walls, in the beer cans,
in the empty face of a bored young man
and there are all the things you see on t.v.
but underneath
there is hope and there is,
in the cry of a baby,
in the buzz of electricity that runs underfoot,
the sound of peace.