On roads between the tribal territories we would stop
to hide amongst the green of things,
some lads would smoke and some be silent.
We talked to horses and forgot our lives,
most often the stillness would calm us.
From hidden hillsides we’d watch our enemies move.
We gave the horses names and fed them apples,
they became our friends they listened to our confessions.
They were not aligned to flags or kerbstone colours.
The radio static broke the spell like lightening strikes,
the rains would wash us back to streets
where our calmness would evaporate to hate.
On the Derriaghy Road between the hell of sink estates
we harassed joyriders and freedom fighters,
terrorists and lovers too, the green and gold, red white and blue.
We gave them names and labels from fokelore, rhymes and fables
just like the horses in the stables
we gave them names.
We fed their hungry bitter souls with reason and with cause,
we never thought we might be wrong
when kicking down their doors.
We gave them names in a language laced with spite
we cursed our enemies so, to make our cause seem right
We gave them names.
And when I hear those names again, spoken, spat and screamed
I think of friendly horses
and wish the rest was just a dream
© Wolfgar 2019