Nightmare Days

“Go down for the Belfast Telegraph,” she said,

“And a packet of Victory V for your da’s head cold.”

I put on my balaclava

And blundered into a riot.

Screaming saracens and bursts of smoke,

Disembodied cheers and shouts.


A wee fella ran past me

And hurled a green toffee paper at the troops.

“I died for Ireland and a penny dainty.”


The thud of heavy boots in an echoing entry.

A trail of blood.

“Ambulance! Doctor! ….”


“Tell his wife they’ve taken him away!”

Yelled a parka jacket.


Around the corner, the chapel bell chimed

For devotions.


“No Telegraphs left, young Morrisey,

No Victory V either.

Here’s a packet of Tunes

To help him breathe more easily.”

He winked.


Leave a Comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.