The Perils of Censorship, R. T. Smith

In March, the Armagh farmer, whose

sons were grown and gone, began

to stir at his hearth. He stared

through his window at winter-stiff

potato beds that wanted turning.

His heart was not what it had been.

He was weak, so he wrote at last

to the oldest, who lived behind bars

in Long Kesh Prison. "What will I do?

I've no strength for the spade.

The earth is hard. I can't shift

for myself," and Michael, convicted

the rifles." The farmer's next letter,

carefully penned by candlelight between

the blue lines of a tax ledger, said,

"Soldiers came to the house last night

and made a holy show in the garden,

hours of rattling and torches and orders.

With all their bayonets, they found

nothing and took cold tea by the road.

Now what would you make of that?"

"Dear Da, just plant your spuds."