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Thirty-six years ago to the day - the hour was noon - one Spring day in Belfast. History recants the story. In all conflicts the innocent suffer. Bombs do not discriminate – they kill and maim with equal resolution regardless of class, creed, age, gender or colour. None are immune. To a lasting peace for all.


ONE SPRING DAY IN BELFAST - Donegall Street, March 20, 1972
(A poem by Walter Magill © Copyright 2008)


I was there that day
When day was turned to night.
When acrid plumes of the bomber’s loom
Wrought ruthless in the fight.

I was there that day
Coincidence of chance.
Robbed in a flash
Of ignorance – Of innocence.

I was there that day
I and the instant dead.
I and the bits of burning flesh
Laid blackened, bloodied, bled.

I was there that day
In shrouds the crack from hell.
The silenced bloody aftermath
The pall on wounded fell.

I was there that day
Caught victim in the fray.
Bloodied, bruised, bewildered
In midnight of the day.

I was there that day
And left to echo why?
Of Shadowed Men
Their cause for us to die.

I was there that day
My mantra drums to beat.
Lest we forget again
And God forbid - repeat.

I was there that day
A day of shame - vainglory.
One Spring day in Belfast
The dead can’t write the story.

R.I.P.

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Comment by Ciara-cyn on February 5, 2009 at 20:48
The pictures your words painted in my mind were visually stunning...staggering. Even the title is permeated with foreboding and conflict. The use of the words "Spring day" and "Belfast" tell the subconscious that cognitive dissonance is imminent. That said, I loved this poem. You chronicle history as not just a voice of the dead, but for us the living as well.

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