Three church spires greet the baked horizons
father, son and holy ghost
exposing the realms of compromising.

Gallows Hill stands to attention, noiseless,
Victorian houses await executing
in memory of the faceless.

Culmore flats scratch heaven sharp eyed
watching the town in cyclops manner
slumber forever denied.

Castle street rises like falcon wings
narrowed paths curl and wisp
carrying with it, historied things,

like the rambling Strule, The cunning Camowen
and level headed Drumragh
interlaced like winters cob-webbed coat
ever fruitful, ever flowing.