Poetry Brian Costello

Omagh

14th August 1998 To pass time, I set myself a simple goal –every syllable of 'No worst, there is none.' But it was Friday, I began to lull, leave off, sleepily drifting towards Gweedore. The bus paused at an old checkpoint, I woke bemused by this unfamiliar chicane.

Waking again further on, we halted. Two Spanish girls in front of me got off and I had no idea where I was –a place half asleep in the evening sun. Rich brick veiled in summer light, it's glowing hearth –wherever it was, it was luring you in. As the bus slipped away, it's name revealed, Omagh, Co. Tyrone, a beautiful town.

15th August 1998 After a day spent around the Downings, we cut across from Gortahork to Gweedore, avoiding the twists of Bloody Foreland. Happily packed tight in a small blue car, exhausted we turned the radio on to the news that the mind has mountains, nay, monsters.

22 August, 1998 World leaders were yet to arrive. Silent, stateless they would walk up Market Street in disbelief, tearful … no-man-fathomed. A supplicant priest held out his hands to offer the Our Father so defiantly.

Hersonissos, June 1999 An early hour giggle called me to the pool. No costumes, no need for any shame –just the binding scars from the shrapnel hail. Naked, feckless, so glad to be alive –two girls who'd met in the makeshift triage room

(Brian Costello)