Derry

I
The unemployment in our bones
Erupting on our hands in stones

The thought of violence a relief,
The act of violence a grief
Our bitterness and love
Hand in glove.

II
At the very most
The mind’s eye
Perceives the ghost
Of the hands try
To timidly knock
On the walled rock.
But nothing will come
And the hands become
As they insist
Mailed fists.

III
The Scots and English
Settling for the best.
The unfriendly natives
Ready for the worst.
It has been like this for years
Someone says,
It might be so forever, someone fears,
Or for days.

© Seamus Deane, Derry, 1972, complete text, Selected Poems, 1988, The Gallery Press.

Seamus Deane depressingly suggests that violence is ingrained in local culture.