Dan Tindall




I once read that Belfast

Is built on the same

Sludge that

Gently holds up the

Most serene republic

A soft mix of sand

Silt, mud and

Salty water

Full of air and rotted filth

Slowly compressing

Sinking into the rising sea

Held back

For now

By a mechanical dyke


So while you can

Take a walk along

The Lagan’s side

Over the Royal Arches and

Go skip beside the angled

Railway pontoon

To find those guardian columns

Defending neither saint nor scholar

Just parkour on the holocaust memorial

And the quiet wall

Of half empty office blocks

And restaurants that change hands

But retain the lack of footfall

And look past the many houses

Of some little hope of justice

Along Chi-Chi Street

To the toy-town Imperial domes

And spires 

Of City Hall

Home of the Dukes of hazardous hate

Battleground between forgetful histories

Set against mountains

Such landscapes

Such a stench

From drains and slow underground rivers

A thousand years

Of collective waste


A thousand years of unwanted kings

And hopeful poets

Starving teachers

Blinded workers

Priests and thrifty counterparts

Lies and deadly close companions

Last gasp of the

Would be gods


Dream serene

That this floating


Adopted home

Should one day open its

Beautiful eyes

And be free

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