Orange

Low round shadow hills, blue dusk.
Scull a boat up a rip-tide
to catch spinning tops
my eyes wide at tales
of his Regiment
oh Captain, my

lean, dangerous, burnt
adjutant of Londonderry launderettes
spin cycle super-grass du jour
hung to dry by bilious
Bogside wind
w hite sheets flap and crack

Bloody English sheet-metal foursquare
narrow bunks, reader's wives
muffled cries from locked rooms
red hand, white glove

grand house executor
his twin green night-scopes surveil