To acknowledge the passing last week of North Belfast poet Gerry Dawe 1952-2024.

The Ulster poetry family have lost another gem.

The Lost by Gerald Dawe

After the denunciation they came piling in,
Even the static of my clothes hurt,
The handle of a door stung like a bee.

I couldn’t walk it off in the skiffs of rain
Along the dreamy sea coast that late spring,
They dogged me, my blunderings,

Like Chinese whispers, twitching curtains,
And the birds in the trees scattered
While those I once knew gave only

A blank stare to my salutations,
Wisps of cloud rose skywards
Through the Velux I’d grown used to

And the empty yards all shadow
And shade. Further afield,
The followers stormed the sacred gate

And all the lost were named.

Gerald Dawe’s most recent collection, The Last Peacock, was published in 2019.