RATS

Connswater

Our river wasnt

a clean river,

a mountain stream,

a babbling brook,

or a silver girl.

It was a filthy river,

a city river,

forsaken, neglected.

Long gone, the glory days,

when it was thick with trout

and where, according to my father,

King Billy watered his horses

on his way to the Boyne;

and later barges sailed

up and down, laden with

flax and jute, rope and linen.

As boys we played there,

we built bridges from

rusting bikes and shopping trolleys,

and wooden palettes,

and plastic bread trays

stolen from the Sunblest bakery.

We sailed boats

made from waxed paper,

always keeping an eye open

for rats, as big as cats,

whose jaws would lock

when they bit your leg,

and you'd have to kill them

to get them off.

.

Once we tried to trace

its source where it bubbled,

clean and pure

from the Castlereagh hills,

but we lost it

under a housing estate

and couldnt find it

on the other side.

Filled with youthful optimism

we went there to fish,

in its black waters,

thick and slick with oil,

with nylon fishing nets

on bamboo poles,

brought back from

a Sunday school trip

to Ballywalter;

and once, I caught a fish.

A sprick, my father said,

thats what it was called.

I brought it home

in a jam jar, with a string handle,

and put it clean water.

Two days later it was dead.

Spricks dont like clean water.