By Francis Hesketh
Jeremy Clarkson wakes up in a cell.
The officers are all dead.
The door is wide open.
He goes outside & it’s Belfast, Falls.
There’s no one around.
He goes into a church for questions
but it’s not a church – it’s a chapel.
A horde of taigs wake & notice him
& Jeremy clenches his fists to fight
the soon to be oncoming Irish.
A single lark sits on a planned tree,
looking for its British counterpart.
Francis Hesketh is a writer from Northern Ireland. He’s been published in the past with Poetry Ireland Review & The Tangerine. Currently his cat is moving its tail. You can find him on Instagram @shiftyowhishkey.
