THE PAD....ARDOYNE

SUNDAY MORNING                                                                                                                                    

Belfast 1970, a grey sky hung
Mucus of tar, the scent of hatred
And spent shells residued.

A woman loved for a moment

By the enemy, cried like a gull

Embedded in an oil-slick, somewhere

Off the coastline of my heart.

The etched guilt of a one-night stand
Tied to the lamp-post. Some men
Passed wrenching traitor, slut, cunt,
And greenhorns from their throats,

That slithered on the black tar

Of her breasts, seeping into

The feathers of her heart.