A morning soaked in peach and watered grey,
     sheer skin of frost still crusted on the fields.
     The brown weeds’ beads are brushed by tufted grass
     and smoke is bent from chimneys on the hill.
     Wild white swans sit on their own reflections,
     quicksilver mirror, perfect symmetry.
     Above on the embankment
     cars slide by.

     The Lagan, icy cold, is slit by boats,
     long razor thin, pulled to a saw-tooth beat
     from Stranmillis towards the Ormeau Bridge
     where Orangemen marked time and time marched on.
     Wild white swans sit on their own reflections,
     quicksilver mirror, perfect symmetry.
     The river sweeps round northwards
     to the sea .

     Black water licked the gasworks’ red brick walls
     where sulphur once hung heavy in the air.
     Where stokers sweated blood on twelve hour shifts
     white collar workers watch the ticking clock.
     Wild white swans sit on their own reflections,
     quicksilver mirror, perfect symmetry.
     From ashes
     global phoenixes arise.

     The local bookie’s doors are open still.
     In Hatfield Street a plaque displays the list
     of men and boys mowed down in Ulster’s name
     while studying the form at Kempton Park
     Wild white swans sit on their own reflections,
     quicksilver mirror, perfect symmetry.
     In the gutter. crumpled,
     beaten dockets lie.

     Dark starlings balance nervous on the wires.
     Dogs bark from back yards at the western sky.
     The day-old sun slips over Divis’ crest
     and milky light of evening soaks the streets
     Wild white swans sit on their own reflections,
     quicksilver mirror, perfect symmetry.
     Gazing down at
     Ulster’s history.