Omagh

I
Two farm-dogs yapped throughout,
Scuffling at a splintered gate.
We loaded the boot from the cellar,
Sweat blind, cursing the summer heat.
He primed the device, and we left
And wove between the low
Hills, not saying much, on duty.

II
Towers, checkpoints unsoldiered,
But that runt of a border still made
Me tense. We argued over nothing,
The air blue with the smoke
Of the cigarettes we smoked
As if to hide something.
Omagh eight miles – I reported in.

III
With a cold thrill our focus narrowed.
Saturday. The streets are rammed.
We eventually park – outside
A shop with a Protestant name.
I imagine the devastation,
Trimble bleating, Blair falsely grave,
Conciliations buried in the rubble.

IV
To underline the point two pigs
Stroll past on Market Street all
Short sleeves and revolvers.
“You’ll be busy the day boys”
I shout inaudibly though the crowds.
Its set, dry mouthed we disappear
Like ice into a warm drink

V
We heard the blast at ten miles,
The Brit convoys with their headlights
Racing back the way we’d come,
Wailing to the sheep at Clanabogan.
On the radio, some commentary
Interrupted by the news,
We cheer and gesture our success.

VI
Wraith-like, four ambulances screamed
Across the bog to unforetold slaughter.
Lives bluntly cleaved from life,
Families tossed headlong into hell,
An island transfixed in wordless grief.
Just once I vomited, he hit me with a stick.
We turned off the phones and went to ground.

VII
You don’t boast of Omagh in Dundalk,
They keep us out of jail but that is all.
Too many Catholics dead, Boston edgy,
The Provos never united Ireland half so well.
In our war you rarely see the bloodied dead,
We remain remote, strategic, academic even.
They come to question only in our dreams.