When I Visit Belfast

I expect sporadic dereliction:
on every third terrace a skip full of rubble
and a few collapsing homes.
Urban life involves recycling in such a way
that there must always be more to be done.
As I pass on the bus I am cheered
by fleeting glimpses of crumbling walls
curtained with ivy,
the green patches of abandoned gardens
and the pigeons that perch together
on the crossbeams of hollow houses.