Norn Iron
I am, and always will be, the hills that roll down to the lough in different shades of brown and green; the clouds that broil above the waters on a summer's day to create a second world of dreams without horizons; blackberries, Dulse and Yellowman in autumn; crab apples falling down from twisted trees. I am byres filled with chickens, tractors, straw and tools; the shuck that stinks in summer; "aye" instead of "yes"; nettles growing high along the horsewalk; and buttermilk; and scallions in the champ. I am linen and Goliath, disused mills and poverty. I am ancient monuments grown old within long grasses, the beer cans left among the stones on Friday nights. I am the stories that the old men tell, ghosts that live a little bit too much, the severed hand of history that weaves memory into now and never knows the difference. I am the sirens wailing late at night in Belfast cutting through the seventies with the rain; Guinness over Bushmills; and taking the long way home. I am the claustrophobia of rural life, Hunger Hill, and wasted youth. I am haunted, I am damaged and I've never been at peace.