THE REAL IRA

The blackbird just waddles across
the tarmac as if he owns the place.
I’m watching two young boys
shadow box by a graffiti fence.

INTERNMENT 1971 is their punch bag,
they punch the air as if they were en-
graving the word. Their role models are en-
grained, nick-named.

I’m picking up this poetry of the street.
Not even a breeze flutters the leaves but
they play out there now with branches
as guns on an I.R.A. mission, soon
they’ll be engrained nick-
named doing time.

There’s a helicopter hovering over-
Head, rotating back into yesterdays
Fear- bloody Sunday, black Friday
Blue Monday.

The sun shines after a long grey winter
that lasted 30 years. Were nearly 20 years into
a peace process and were still dragging along
those dark days. They hit the road jack-
union of the little boys blue bag brigade.

Scarred the tar mac, burnt another car. I hope
They never come back no more no more no-
more no more. Were glancing over our-
Shoulder again and they call themselves
the real I.R.A. Let the children play.