Chessboards of sparkling steel and glass vibrate in the thunder’s off-beat. The sky is iron and its beat is sparse, as rain drums down on steel pan streets —
Their chequered slabs fizzing with people; accents elope into spilling red brick sound. In Far Gosford Street and shadows of the steeple there are mosaics of notes and the music is loud.
Teal copper is shattered by the rain and resurrected by three fountains’ plumes. The skyline is graced by wind-stricken cranes — conducting the city’s ghost town tune.
In two-tone basements songs slowly rise. Polished brass and steel strings echo in pylons and electric skies. And people dance in the song the city sings.
Building Walls: You will be remembered as the girl who turned up late and passed the party hidden in the kitchen leafing through the cookery books.
I noticed the way you avoided answering questions and instead spoke quietly about the weather and your interest in acrostics.
Even when you moved to stand neatly by my side, I felt that you were analysing everything I said, as if you wanted to dissolve my words into individual letters and note them down in a series of black and white boxes that re-assembled told the same kind of truth as your perfect lemon tarts.
Foyle Young Poets of the Year 49