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Paul F. McCann

A PLACE BEHIND THE DOOR

A large crowd had gathered on the streets of North Belfast
throwing stones at the British Army.

Some rubber bullets were fired
and I saw one of them hit an old woman in front of me.

Then from nowhere this young lad opened up
with a hail of bullets from a submachine gun.

There was a return of fire and in the middle of the battle,
there was nowhere to run.

The sub machine gun was almost as big as the young lad
who had emptied his magazine.

I looked at him and remembered the football team we played for
before the troubles had been.

Then the next thing I knew he disappeared behind a cloak of people
and in through a door.

What happened to the boy with the ball at his feet?
What ever doesn’t matter anymore?

That door closed and he was gone,
as were the times we once knew in our peaceful Belfast city.

I can never bring that back
or change the history pages with its glory and pity.

I wish the door could open again
and he would return back to the street without a gun.

But the door been closed
and behind it there hides the face of many an innocent one.

Behind that door and beyond that place I can only pray for a way back
To peace again.

Then with no more bullets and bombs we can take to the streets
and forget how things went insane.

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