Walls. 19.11.14 by Hugh Midden Speaks

This poem, was originally written while travelling in and out of Belfast in 2006/2007.

Walls. 18.11.14
By Randall Stephen Hall.

From platform four at Central.
Central Station, Belfast.
I stood and waited for the train
That would take me to Whitehead.

An Fionn Ceann.

Not so long ago I would stand
And wait for the same train.
But something had changed.
The view.

For once, on any cold, windy day.
Sunny, wet or dry day.
My view was unimpeded.
To the broad, broad way.
The imperfect picture postcard
Of “the Markets”.

Little houses with slogans.
Loitering, hangin’ on, hangin’ out, chillin’.
Cars, coming and going, the smell of grillin’
Trees, grass growing, coloured shapes, bags of shopping.
Children playing, moving, hopping, living.

But now, the people, who make these decisions
Had built an enormous wall.
A wall in cinemascope.
As tall, as tall could be.
A broad wall of Babel, like a layered cake.
With a fence on top
To stop what?

I thought . . .

I reckoned the fence must be there
To keep the birds out.
Who didn’t have tickets.
Daily, weekly or monthly.

I turned away from the wall.
The wall that blocked my view of it all.
Out to humanity.
To the trees and the houses of the Lagan.

Were those more acceptable than the Markets?

An architect’s impression
Realised in 3D.

I thought . . .

Well . . .
At least you know where you are
With a wall you can see.
It’s the walls you can’t see
That be-devil me.

For I would take a hammer to them all
If only I could see them.