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...COMING DOWN TO THE DESERT AT LORDBURG, N.M. by HAYDEN CARRUTH CONTRA MORTEM: THE CHILD'S BEING by HAYDEN CARRUTH ABOVE HALF MOON by JAMES GALVIN MY DEATH AS A GIRL I KNEW by JAMES GALVIN DREAM LIFE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 3. TEESTAY by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON |