Poem - East Belfast

Interestingly enough, the smell still
pipes from the Fryar Tuck; with many
locallers queuing up. I don't blame them -
the fish suppers are amazing.

Almost like the Blue Lagoon but with
more history attached to them.

While standing at the top of Bloomfield,
looking down to where Beersbridge runs
across, the stars and city lights look
shiny and electric. A charge connects
to me and longs to take me elsewhere.

Its picturesque down Cyprus too, where
Lottie likes to make a mess and walk
me while I pull her lead. She charges
at a smaller mutt; serves her right
for even looking over this way!

The rain is starting and I'm off
home; I cut through Kirkliston and think
about getting a house like these. But
I don't have the money.

(Neither will half of them, for a
crunch is munching everybody.)

Perhaps tomorrow, I will return to
the Newtownards Road, where so many
went about their business day-to-day
when I was a teenager.