The bougainvillea creeper crawls all over the garden shed,
Hanging on by strands against a backdrop of deep vivid red .
Prickling and sticking her heels deep into the garden bed .
The bees are buzzing , Bougainvillea juice on honeycomb bread .
The summer sun blazes down from a hazy sky over head .
The bougainvillea defies the heat she will not be found dead .
Paul Mc Cann
My home town of Belfast erupted in violence in 1968 . I was 12 years old at the time . Friends of mine were killed and others left to make their home in countries far away . Suddenly life had changed . The beautiful open spaces of Belfast had disappeared and all that was left were ghettos filled with cs gas and the cold merciless streets, littered with broken pavements . The gable walls of houses began to portray a picture of struggle with the words of graffiti that depicted a city in trouble .
I write songs . I started about twenty years ago . Took them to London and went busking . It was ok . Not really a lifestyle I'd recommend however . There is no luxury in living out of a suitcase . On the up side the day to day things are never the same There is no daily grind . It is not very lucrative but you can get enough to eat if you busk long enough .
If life is a piece of cake what receipe do we use ?
The proof of the cake is in the tasting .
I love the sweet taste of life . The real banquet is yet to come . Wonder whats for desert ?
