Our walking-tour guide says seals
for sails and crayeen for crown, leads us
along the Lagan to 70 foot Nuala
with the Hula (aka The Beacon of Hope).
For every jab at the IRA, there’s a quip
against the UVF.
Ask me my politics, my religion,
you can’t shock me. A gauntlet thrown
with an ironic smile: to rip him
by the roots, box and label,
here where lamp posts flash allegiance
and street names are fuses.
The secret leaks into how we listen,
refuses to break covenant
with neutrality, shields tribal DNA
from trip wires of language.
Some call them freedom fighters,
some say terrorists, but I say bastards!
Only joking – I say paramilitaries.
Outside the Crown Saloon,
we learn about mixed-marriage publicans
who battled over its Royal sign,
spared the name but painted a crown
on the floor for the other side to spit on.
