Standing proud upon his pedestal
the black man of belfast gazes forlorn down
Wellington place, the fields he once ran
are but a distance memory
It never occurred to him, that one day he
would be a symbol, a meeting place, for the
people of the City whose tarred roads were once
his playground, of green and golden fields.
many years he withstood the wind rain and sleet.
Watched, as the city took shape around him.
The black man, one wonders, was he bewildered,
that pigeons and starlings of Belfast roosted upon him
Today this black man, son of Chichester, ‘Earl of Donegall’
scion of old Belfast, stands in the City hall atop the
grand stairway, not a meeting place of the people of Belfast,
a charade of robed citizenry, streaming into the council chamber
May be he is relieved, that the tide of time has placed him
Amidst the splendour of the white and black hued marble.
No longer can he see the misshapen City hiding the Farset River
nor the green and golden fields of his yesterdays.
