Tyrone shadows

The March sun,
Ancient as paradise,
Though some would reckon it a scant six thousand years,
Casts long shadows.

Window frames, curtains, the odd boot or potato,
Anything near the light
Or close to the ground
Is chased across the boards.

Myself, a headless Giacometti
On the cobbles.
That can't be good
This side of Fairy Water.

It's been a week and a half this week.
Shadows, mine and ours
Gathered in a heavy bundle.
I test them on my heart.

A burden,
A bogside box,
A bloodied bridge,
A small and sharp betrayal,

Drawn out,
Longer than they should be, 
Their bitter edges 
Block the light.

In this place,
Where shadows print six thousand years of stains,
Beware the sun.
The dark shades sting.