Not much rain that month they say - May of nineteen-forty-six;

the ache of war, still in the bones, where Cregagh boys kicked tries

down at Malone and dodged the sixes from the next-door cricket pitch. 

Wednesday, the twenty-second, an ordinary Belfast day,

but some alignment of the spheres, some sorcery, conspiracy of Gods,

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Annabel and Dave are sorted

toast the life they always courted

with Johnny Walker Black (imported)

by a geezer in Gibraltar.

Dave’s new boat’s a thirty footer

cowhide seats as soft as butter

room to practice with his putter

cruising down to Malta.

Made his pile in double glazing

take and margins just amazing

dreams of days of golf and lazing

on the Costa’s beac...

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