The women of Belfast couldn't tell the time
had no clocks
maybe to remind them of their place
to win a wage and earn god's grace
each mill horn wailed
to a cacophony of perfect discord
Get up for work and ready your head
for the clattering racket of the weaving shed
In our house the air of early morning
stayed still until the 10 to 7 horn
then scullery rattles of pan and plate
and the shovel's rasp as it readied the grate
seeped through the rough blankets and heavy quilt
When called we dropped from the attic bedroom
urged by a straining bladder
swung off the creaking slingsby ladder
hit the landing on the run
played light notes against the white delfh dish
a childish echo
of the loud gabbling torrent
of our daddy's morning pish
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