Thomas

I was dumped at this church,
unable to get home;
back down the hill into town.
This city, this town is deathly sick;
my head stoved in with a brick
and barrels from the bar.
I watch a car
toil up Forthriver’s rise,
from this hill among the skies.
No hallowed stones or weathered blocks
for me, just an ugly brick box
like a clinic or youth club.
This isn’t the church I’d haunt
given the choice.
But when they bate my head
in the toilets of that bar:
falling barrels, aye
that’s what they said,
choice was taken from me
by a butcher in his cups.
Now I gaze towards Divis,
with its peaks and troughs
and over to the east,
Cave Hill and the lough.
There’s no bells here
to ring out my salvation,
no vengeance divine
will ever be mine.
A bullet in the leg’s no pay
for stolen lives
consigned to yesterday.

Twenty-two year old male civilian, beaten to death following a personal dispute by Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF)  members of the Shankill Butchers.