Number 87, The Fountain, by Bill Mumford

The snib string was pushed through grandfather’s door
Well-worn by the tug of neighbours’ hands.
Let out during the day, pulled in at night
Hefted children, weans, keen to explore.
“No going to the Bog Side or Creggan”
“No cheeking old man Walker- he’s not right”

Tribal childcare, fed wherever we were
Never any trouble: “we know your ma”.
And god knew everything we were thinking-
Even before we did. We were wary.
Found places that were under the radar
Feral- until the string was pulled in.

We snook over to see Derry City
“Avert your eyes from the graven imagery!”