by Niamh Keoghan
It is an imposing, ghost like thing,
An echo of the tiger’s brief roar.
Dusty windows and dirty floors behind
The fenced off doors to the past.
Silent inside and the strip light hasn’t illuminated
A room in years with an ugly industrial glare.
The vault of an old, cold world that never cared to
See the hunt approaching, flood waters encroaching.
The grave of this old, naïve world is out dated now,
A moment out of sync with the times.
The silent crimes of concrete poured into the field, onto corners,
Squaring off the edges.
The shrapnel from the boom tears us apart, and
Our ears are still ringing from the explosion in a
Frequency we shall never hear in again.
Niamh Keoghan grew up in Dublin, Ireland and came of age during the Irish 'Celtic Tiger' economic boom and eventual recession of the mid 2000s. She first performed as a storyteller in Dublin and has since performed in Aberystwyth and Cardiff. She still writes as much as she can in her spare time. She presently lives in Cardiff.