I

Yesterday rain tumbled down on Belfast,
by mid evening the house brick was damp-dark,
the geraniums were in mourning-upright, just-
in their blackened saturated terracotta.

The crown of the trees against the premature dusk,
like huge dulse-heads dropped from an ocean sky;
a shade darker than deepest black.

The wooden garden table, the concrete patio,
the stepping stones across the lawn;
the window sills and the back door steps,
all melancholic, sodden to black.

The Bangor blue slates on the line of rooftops,
a stinking fur coat, black as ink,
that had been lying all day in a puddle,
outside Woodvale Park thirty years ago.

II

Thirty years ago the chain links,
on the park's swings,
were as dull as hell on a rainy day.

The tar macadam play area,
a poisonous liquorice river
with its island of wooden and cold-iron roundabout