A bruised sun in a March sky.
Along the border army watchtowers
scan hill and gorse.
Beware the road signs in these parts.
Not so much ‘Men at Work’
as ‘Sniper on Patrol’.

At Drumintee and The Three Steps.
Nemesis of a brave Grenadier
who liked to sing rebel songs
and who loved the Irish,
more than they loved him.
Before they shot the captain,
one of the gunmen claimed he was a priest,
hoping for a last confession.
A bullet in the head, the soldier’s absolution.
I’m here to interview the locals,
but they don’t want to talk.
At least not to me.
It’s a polite ‘fuck off’.
Not voiced, just a diffident smile.
A shrug of resignation.
Nothing personal.

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