One, two, buckle the shoe -
such a simple thing to do;
three, four, knock on the door -
a whispered word, no time for
more;
five, six, pick up sticks
of dynamite and all the tricks;
seven, eight, lay them straight
against the justice of the state;
nine, ten, ‘a big fat hen’ -
code-name for the moment when
eleven, twelve, dig and delve,
plot the movements, nerve
themselves;
thirteen, fourteen, who comes
haunting
bitter minds in long Long Lartin?
fifteen, sixteen, bodies
splattered
through the pub, blood-burned and
shattered;
seventeen, eighteen, young sons
waiting -
loveless, lonely, hardened,
hating;
nineteen, twenty - hope seems
empty
in this tortured, gut-strewn
plenty;
twenty-one, twenty-two,
twenty-three, twenty-four,
twenty-five, twenty-six,
twenty-seven... do you want me/us
to go on?
(May,
1987)
