John Lynch
Checkpoint
Do you remember that trouble
at the checkpoint in Armagh?
When you didn’t stop
at the squaddie’s signal,
and I had to yank on the handbrake.
How you argued with them
beneath the gun tower;
laughed even, at the young one
who seemed barely big enough
to hold his rifle,
while I opened the boot;
answered their questions;
said Sorry.
And later, puffing off the road
above scattered farms,
how you sat, quiet now, and
waited for me to say
what I wanted to say,
only words wouldn’t come,
just rain, swept by gusts of wind,
that raked the car,
spattered the bonnet.
Page(s) 16
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