belfast on a spring evening

(revised)

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 union jack flags
swaying in the air,
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 the smell of trouble:
dirty, sweaty, expectant.
the smell that somewhere
a bored youth is chosing a cause and
picking his target with a gun barrell.

i have left behind the warm fire, hot dinner.
i have stepped out into this bleeding night.
the air is sharp, like a slap,
cooling as cold water on a tired morning.
the sound of my shoes slapping the cement
rings thorugh my ears, drowns out the noises.

i walk past the newagents,
where i learnt how to steal
and how to give back.
i walk past the pub and laughter
ripples out from the windows,
bathes me in second hand happiness.

there are rustles in the trees
as a sharp wind races through the city.
plastic bags fly through the air like ghosts.
my hair is wrapped around invisible fingers
of wind, tied into ribbons,
the tips of my fingers sting.

a child chases a leaf,
her yelp floats on the wind, lifts towards the sky.
her coat is red, she looks like a warning sign.
a tiny siren chasing a fluttering skeleton.

i know that there is hate.
there is hate on the walls, in the beer cans,
in the empty face of a bored young man.
there are all the things you see on television,
the burning cars, the burning prams,
the burning eyes.

but in the cry of a baby,
in the buzz of electricity that runs underfoot,
in the whisper of a winter wind,
in the laughter of a child chasing a leaf,
there is the sound of peace.