If you dwell on the threshold, on the edge of that higher plane, and if the big-time operators have been defeated and faded from memory, and if you can project and touch the silence as it wraps you in its cloak, like a mystic’s vision, and if you can turn and pivot like a lithe ballerina, then it is time to venture into the slipstream. There between the viaducts of a dream, where immobile steel rims crack, and the ditch on the back-road stops, there at last you will find yourself. On Hyndford Street where the window panes glisten and reflect bright and clear as the stream at the headwaters of the Lagan, there you will remember when it all began. When you inhale the sweet aroma from the bakery across the street, floating on the air, tangible in its permeation, when that scent invades your senses with its ruthless relentlessness, then you will be home.
As you await the coming of the night, walking in gardens wet with rain, where droplets cling and reflect the stars in your lover's eyes, there you will vow to never grow so old again or to read between the lines; only then will your mind be still and allow your heart to hear itself think. In the shadow of the clock the bell tolls blend with the clang of the steel hammers that once forged cold pigs of iron and the sounds from the Maritime still float endlessly on the cool, languid streams of magical air. On a tree lined avenue, a girl with outstretched arms, beckons you to dance with her under silver moonbeams, the rainbow ribbons in her hair glinting in the soft light and the Belfast child sings once again and then you know that it’s too late to stop now.