i.m. John Hume
There are days I am back there, Six years old,
with my sibling, damp haired, at the open fire,
on beanbags (one Superman, one Victoria Plum).
We are swaddled in blankets, cereal bowls loaded
with Maltesers, Fruit Pastilles and Cadbury’s Buttons.
I’m craving the A team, my brother Knightrider.
BA Baracus won’t get on no plane. Hannibal is donning
his black leather gloves as Faceman holsters his colt trooper
magnum. Michael and Kitt are in pursuit of assassins,
our parents in the good room clink Tyrone crystal.
Voices murmur, manoeuvering throughout each other
in a muffled web, as news bursts through the armour
of Saturday evening, wrapping rime ice
around a blast in an Ulster pub with no inkling,
before supercooling, on our TV screen, to a headline.