Crumlin, by Frank Sewell

Crumlin — something ‘bend’ or ‘stoop’?

For me, a place where the train pulls up

and, unnoticed, the ghost of you slips

into my carriage, through my lips

and under my skin where you belong

but will not stay. By Glenavy, you’re gone.

Then Belfast, the ‘Farset-Mouth’ closed

to us, all those deadly mementos,

old haunts where it hurts to go

or look back at an empty window.

A day at most, and I return

to Coleraine, outback, ‘corner of fern’,

and again have to pass through Crumlin.

How can I get round you, woman?

Wipe Crumlin off the map?

Hi-jack the train and never stop?

Blow the whistle, shoot on past

the people and prams? Not so fast.

With the seven powers invested in me

by Crom’s Three Hags of the Long Teeth,

I’ll crumple Crumlin to a speck

thrice bound in a haversack

with lace from a girl’s DM boot,

the gold wristwatch of King Canute,

and a bobble you bunched her hair with once.

Now it’s worse than it ever was.

The train cuts out Glenavy to Antrim,

and I feel there’s something wanting,

something lost that can’t be regained,

spirited away like the gh in Cromghlinn.

Copyright: Frank Sewell

Mary Anne Farenden (QUB Student)