Ireland

A bomb shatters the silence of George Street,
sending clouds of dust down chimneys.
In seconds the dull thud dies away,
only a milk bottle rolling over the pavement
disturbs the silence with its circular sound –

Unshaven men in pyjamas stand like convicts
framed in the doorways of their cells,
or lean out windows like old farmers
on wooden gates, staring over concrete fields
whose walls hold nothing in.

Women half dressed, still warm from sleep,
hold children’s hands and let tired faces hang
like flowers withering after daylight or water.
While behind them kettles whistle
and toast burns under the grill.

Along another quiet road,
a man, pedaling an old bicycle,
whistles a familiar Irish air
as he creaks up a hill towards home,
the morning paper in his pocket,
secure, folded like a job well done.

–Tony Curtis