Peter McDonald

At Castlereagh Church

The sun goes out in pink and purple
late on a late Easter Sunday,
while at the gates a courting couple
begin to take their winding way
from church down towards Gilnahirk,
through whin-blossom and blackcurrant
along the hedgerows where they walk:
primroses, docken and wild mint.

My father in his travelling clothes,
my mother in her summer coat:
they feel the chill, and walk in close
to each other on a dropping road
past fields and gardens, weeks before
the clematis will risk a flower.