The day the store in King William Street burst
the sky rained tailor's dummies, and someone
found an arm three blocks from the blast,
(a fact some papers headlined). When Moran
bumped into his wall of bullets outside
the cartoon show, amazement not horror
was the crowd's first impulse at such vivid
screenplay. We of course can't take in such nightmare
when the buses still run. 'Unreal' we say, lost
among the flags and statues. On the ghosted
Crumlin now, a lone youngster ambles.
She hums a skipping tune as her ball rolls
at the soldier behind the fence,whose every nerve
is a missile triggered on her every move.
The poem refers to the 'Troubles' in Northern Ireland. The Crumlin road saw many attacks and murders