My father and mother, my brother and sister and I, with uncle Pat, our dour best-loved uncle, had set out that Sunday afternoon in July in his broken-down Ford not to visit some graveyard-one died of shingles, one of fever, another's knees turned to jelly- but the brand-new roundabout at Ballygawley, the first in mid-Ulster. Uncle Pat was telling us how the B-Specials had stopped him one night somewhere near Ballygawley and smashed his bicycle and made him sing the Sash and curse the Pope of Rome. They held a pistol so hard against his forehead there was still the mark of an O when he got home | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE MEMORABLE VICTORY OF PAUL JONES by PHILIP FRENEAU DAMON THE MOWER by ANDREW MARVELL PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 68. AL-KADAR by EDWIN ARNOLD SAINT MAY: A CITY LYRIC by JOSEPH ASHBY-STERRY THE BLIND LEGION by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THE DAUGHTER by MATILDA BARBARA BETHAM-EDWARDS THE CATHEDRAL PORCH by LAURENCE BINYON |