Black Mountain, by Frank Sewell

For three, if not twenty-three, years,

I did not see the mountains

around Belfast for the mountains

of grief. I stopped my ears

with gigs, guitars, discos, céilís,

words on record sleeves and holidays

the hell-out-of-it in Donegal, the Glens,

for as long as I could stay in them.

Now can I make amends, befriend

this loyal city that wears its name

like an ulcer on a limb? In three,

if not twenty-three, years, maybe.

Copyright: Frank Sewell