Bloody Sunday - a poem by Derry writer Hugh Gallagher

That winter came slowly,

To the valley, along the river Foyle.

A January sun shone on a Creggan hilltop.

Thousands upon thousands gathered there,

Their spirits high.

Some shivered, others stamped their feet,

Anxious to be on their way.

For fate awaited them, down below,

Somewhere in that beautiful valley,

At the end of a winding, tiring march.

Rumours, frightening stories,

Spread through the gathered masses.

‘I seen the Saracens, extra troops...

Paratroopers, red berets, hate in their eyes.’

‘Wise up! Wise up, you’re scaring the wains.

Nothing will happen. Sure there’s too many here!’

The column moved off swiftly in the end,

Well past starting time... Derry time!

Plunging down Southway, heading for the town,

Strangers marvelled at the view.

‘Where are we going?’ someone asked.

‘The Guildhall, the Diamond. Does anybody know?’

Blindly onward they marched,

Gathering more along the way.

‘There’s comfort in numbers,’ an old woman said.

Destination unreached, confusion reigned.

Fate showed its hand.

Shots pierced the air, in the gathering gloom.

Then screaming, shouting, running.

More gunfire, closer now.

‘Run, run! As fast as you can. They’ve run amok!’

‘What’s wrong?’

by Hugh Gallagher

(written ten years after Bloody Sunday)