Hard Town

Eamon Friel Cop. Con.

Watching the wind at work rummaging round
Dancing in doorways down the street
Cans and bottles white plastic bags
These are its trophies

And there’s an ice cream van stops up the street
Singing a song of somewhere else
Bluebirds fly on its tinkling tune
Over the rainbow

And there are times I see you stare
Into the night looking towards your somewhere
Your face a frown
And if I could love I would take you there
Out of this hard town

So many empty eyes so little hope
So many badly beaten lives
There’s no faith here the eyes cast down
Nobody knows you

But there’s a tree that grows a crooked tree
Out of the concrete living still
And it blesses with its green grace
This sombre side street