A street of meagre terraces,
Clinging to the lough mouth
By destitute resolve.
Surviving cot and bothy
And the industry of brick clay.
Straddling the river,
Without bridge.
Without water.
One day they scattered the people
And their ways,
A hinterland in every wind.
‘They’re ferry people you know?’
A porous row monument left
To crumble through my childhood
And sink beneath the bungalows,
Peppering soggy points and quarters
From the Largy to Far Ballyscullion.
5intheface – 02/03/2013
It's a Poetical World 