My father and mother, my brother and sister and I, with uncle Pat, our dour best-loved uncle, had set out that Sunday afternoon in July in his broken-down Ford not to visit some graveyard-one died of shingles, one of fever, another's knees turned to jelly- but the brand-new roundabout at Ballygawley, the first in mid-Ulster. Uncle Pat was telling us how the B-Specials had stopped him one night somewhere near Ballygawley and smashed his bicycle and made him sing the Sash and curse the Pope of Rome. They held a pistol so hard against his forehead there was still the mark of an O when he got home | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VENUS IN A GARDEN by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON ACROSS THE RED SKY by KATHERINE MANSFIELD VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART by EDGAR LEE MASTERS UNDER A PATCHED SAIL by MARIANNE MOORE IMPRESSIONS OF FRANCOIS-MARIE AROUET (DE VOLTAIRE) by EZRA POUND BUCOLIC COMEDY: THE BEAR by EDITH SITWELL |