Walking the Dog, by Frank Sewell

(Belfast 1989)

From RPG Avenue to the Falls by a back-entry,

I turn where trees and street-lights

stand like giant sentries.

My dog (a revisionist)

pisses on their shoes,

sniffs the recent past

of the pavement, then gives it dog’s abuse.

Inscriptions, chalked, scratched, painted,

make the road a text. Here, ‘the fools,

the fools…’ has been ended

by a paint-bomb; both will be replaced,

the offence re-offended.

The wall around Our Lady’s Hospice

is like a book

read under blankets.

Torched in the neon look

of cars’ glancing headlights,

white letters lunge from the black:

DON’T LET THEM DIE.

I have to think hard

before the Hunger Strike

fleshes each word

with context.

My dog’s perked ears guard

the metre of my steps.

Deep in his night-dark coat,

he breathes hot hoary wisps

of impatience with the road’s,

and my own, meandering.

Hungry for the park, he strolls

on as if nothing

should keep a dog from grass.

And I follow him,

slowly, just in case

there is something

I could learn from all this

other than the scoring

of old scores: ‘SAS

three, IRA nothing’,

and vice versas

over and over again

till the Falls Road falls

flat on its name,

and the park seems a small

consolation buried under rain.

Copyright: Frank Sewell