Alchemisland

Where I grew up

Dublin city, well southside of it 

Pale walls, far outside of it 

Once a farm haven now a thriving 

Young metropole 

Tired of being bold selling metric ton bowls, tired old soul

Perhaps earlier we had been pinched misdemeaning 

We’d eat Aprile’s chips on the billboard of an evening

Above Glenalbyn pitch 

Pitched up in moonlight 

As if the dead were to play for titles

In the grave, still County rivals 

Here we swam our lengths 

Learnt our backstrokes from our breasts

Alas the swimming pool’s closed now 

House of the Dead

In Leisureplex

A DVD from Chartbusters in the PS2 in the shed.