Witness by Eavan Boland

Here is the city—
its worn-down mountains,
its grass and iron,
its smoky coast
seen from the high roads
on the Wicklow side.

From Dalkey Island
to the North Wall,
to the blue distance seizing its perimeter,
its old divisions are deep within it.

And in me also.
And always will be.

Out of my mouth they come:
The spurred and booted garrisons.
The men and women
they dispossessed.

What is a colony
if not the brutal truth
that when we speak
the graves open.

And the dead walk?

by Eavan Boland

Other poems by 'Eavan Boland'

Anorexic

My Country in Darkness

The Black Lace Fan My Mother Gave Me

Outside History

Quarantine

That the Science of Cartography Is Limited

More Than Suspect

The Harbour

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