\u201cOn Fridays, we eat fish,\u201d
\nShe told me as we\u2019d walked up, chatting, from the Waterside.
\nThe train track, routed by the river bend,
\nArched underneath the city\u2019s second bridge.
\nA towering form (or so we thought so then);
\nTwo mighty levels for the traffic that roared by.
\nMindful of warnings, kept alert by news,
\nWe exited the station: took the lower level of the bridge. <\/p>\n
To navigate the upper storey, then,
\nWas foolhardy and just not worth the risk.
\nWe knew the news reports \u2013 civilians shot;
\nA soldier ambushed on his way back from patrol.
\nWe walked the rattling, fume-soaked lower deck
\nThen up the hill and down into the Bog*. <\/p>\n
Newly friends, we\u2019d learned each other\u2019s rituals;
\nBut lecture halls and theatres were neutral and benign.
\nWalking on home turf was different when the soil was new;
\nSigns and signals were foreign \u2013 caught us unawares \u2013
\nBut we were young enough to want to learn. <\/p>\n
We\u2019d walked the rough-edged pavement to the house
\nWhen suddenly she stopped \u2013 and all too casually inquired \u2013
\n\u2018My mother was worried you might be insulted\u2026I mean\u2026
\n(She struggled here) She thought you might prefer
\nIf she took down the Sacred Heart while you were here? <\/p>\n
I could not answer for the grief that swamped me then;
\nI had no right to ask it \u2013 and made clear to tell her so.
\nHer friendship and her family were what had drawn me in;
\nThe rules of her house would be mine while I was there.
\nAnd so it was I found my second home \u2013
\nA tiny terrace in a torn city with a generous, beating heart. <\/p>\n
I\u2019ve visited often in the years since then,
\nAnd on Fridays, we eat fish. <\/p>\n
\u00a9 Anne McMaster 2016<\/p>\n
*The Bogside. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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