Sel Whiteley > Writing | WritersCafe.org | The Online Writing Community

I I watchhim still, their Celt and comrade, standing on the stage, the light dulling like sunset, hisconcert in a tavern in the heart of Galway..

They start with the car. Some Red Hand crowd that brays for blood, clenches knuckles that crunch for lack of calcium and substance, they crawl do..

Too often this land has been ravaged by war. Five years ago, in heather jagged mountains, eight boys sat around a campfire, lit on a patch of oak..

Mothers drink amid the hazed laughter of coffee houses and tearooms as before. Yet never once forget lost sons, thousands and thousands tucked in..

- funny in a sense, my being drunk, his being drunker. I sat on his knotted carpet, listening to that recording of his song, ..at the turnstile.....

I squint my eyes against the morning as sun greens May grass. I try to imagine soldiers even in this suburb of clipped hedges and large houses, ..

This coat staves off more than just the cold night. He coughs all the bloodied phlegm from his lungs and life. He is alone, crying, despairing ..

Though you see your people teenagers slaughtered asterrorists numb to the scorch of lead in their flesh and despite the white flags and the Gene..

Six years old he stands the same height as the cello and still idealises his father their lead singer, who drunkenly reels between the instrument..

Cultivated flowers of cultures far off and long gone have faces upturned to some yellow charge of sun. We eat at Belfast’s Botanic Gardens..