Men Of Maeve Poem by Jimmy O'Connell

Tunnelling through the darkness, our train
is rail-cornering into south Armagh.

Memory conjures the roll of hill, green
ditch, the breeze-swirl of squared meadows.

That resolute boy defended the Ulster
Gap here, with spear-shaft and javelin justice.

The Bull was safe. He slaughtered his nine
hundred by the banks of the bravely
exposed bog. Death’s silence seeps into
the fold and frounce of the black Cooley.

Have we come to Belfast already,
to Victoria’s iron and glass? We gather
our cases and stuff newspapers into bags,

while outside blobs of rain slap and bullet
against the window’s mirrored
blackness. I frown at my forgetfulness:

I have no coat with which to brave the elements.