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My writing desk is a chest of drawers
someone has painted it gloss white
the gloss white paint is flaking
the wormed wood below is showing
it is pressed against the window
I can see into the backyards
I can see the Antrim hills in the distance
covered in snow and hanging cloud
beyond the carriageway and farms
beyond the bog land fields
the backs of the houses form a square
of wrecked cars  glass  scorch marks
young people drink cider
young people have pit bulls that bark twenty-four hours
young people have no jobs
I have a tin of tobacco
I have a cheap notepad  one hundred pages
a pen with Oxfam written on it
a coat against the frost
the ice on unheated walls
I can look beyond even the hills
I can look beyond the sadness of my years
beyond the fact that nothing has changed
all because I have a poem in the making
my writing desk is a chest of drawers.