He couldn’t contain himself.
He tried.
The urbane veneer of a tour guide
Was beyond him.
He ushered his motley crew
Around the streets of Belfast
From City Hall to Albert Clock
Through the lanes and to the dock.
We had descriptions and dates.
He had to give us those.
The tour guide rule book demands it.
They were there to punctuate the rest.
He hissed. He spat his invective.
The Troubles. The wrongs. The miscellany
Of English contempt for the Irish.
He gave it his all and his eyes shone.
The story was that it was all
So much better now.
But I strongly suspect that his
Blood sang and yearned for the past.
Purple Lady Poetry 
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