by Mike Jenkins, with photo above by William Murphy
I imagine you shaking your head
At the stations and pub in your name
In a country with racists cursing
Even under the Lynott wall-painting .
People from every Continent
Taking on the brogue
Across the tracks of bike, car and Luas.
I think of you stretchered from the GPO,
Wound left to fester in Dublin Castle;
Taken to the gaol and as you fell
With the gangrene rotting your leg,
They strapped you to a chair
All ready for the execution.
A helicopter judders overhead
The high-walled prison yard
And I am taken back to those sharp beams
Which searched , invading even bedrooms .
“It is never over !” I hear you say,
” The world has come to us at last.”
After ricochets of bullets’ demands,
Sounds of languages become one song.
