Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Two

Michael Spring

Leaving Belfast

I want to arise and go now, so that I can arrive at Downpatrick races In the mist, with Poker, who once glimpsed heaven And told me how, pink-faced and porter-stained from playing billiards With the Hurricane in a smoky hall I would go now to lie with the dark-eyed beauty who raked her bow Across the cello, stroking out her soulful lays, impossibly rousing The cloud-cushioned angels, dispatching sightless marionettes From tenements to do her bidding I cannot flee the years that have exploded, the airline bag full of Semtex In my palm, a thumping grief of nails, while gazing into the crystal future Scanning the sunset across the greasy seas with a smile empty of intent Save for its own bright continuance I think of the giants who would gyre, sleeping under Slieve Donard now And the flame which licks my cigarette only serves to ignite the loss And show me Diane's upturned face as we wait in the thin rain To board the overnight ferry