In the poets’ fair
city an old ha’penny
carries me over
to the Southside. I
cross, stroll with the memory
hunters, among folk
and languages not
from here, with camera and open-
mouthed purpose, tourists,
Trinity Old Library,
fulsome, bronzed Molly, local
cupping her exposed
breast. I pass someone
shouting at us to repent
through a speaker, with
her watching man friend.
I want to repent, like others,
sheepishly walking
no thought to stop with
the sleeping man, head rests in
the gutter. Could have
been a corpse. Are we now
immune to the lost souls in
our streets, to begging
bowls from takeaway
cups? Am I now in the poets’
unfair city?
Trevor Patterson lives in Helen’s Bay, Co. Down and is a fresh emerging voice in poetry terms. His poetry currently explores his surroundings, identity and belonging, and he is experimenting with a range of style and form, from traditional, modern and free verse.