I’m not from round here,
but I know I’ve seen this shack
And nowhere near a roundabout
outside Belleek
With lorries thundering by
and plastic bags
A place of fracture in the mouth
of flags
The petrol station right across the road
the traffic’s roar
A shuttered window and
a padlocked door
I’ve seen it on an island by a track
where no birds sing
The woman selling tickets takes your name
and everything
And leads you down the tunnel to
the underground
Where ghosts of desolation squeak
and hang around
All grey and quietly gibbering
a pallid crew
None will return from this dark place
except a few
So many travellers
were swallowed whole
The ones that passed and didn’t
pay their toll
A line of scallops on the roof
as Scanias roll
Anita Greg was born in London, raised in Cumbria, and came to Belfast about 30 years ago to open a shop in the North Street Arcade. Likes windy weather and rain, the seashore, Classical Greek and bees
The hut was built on the site of the old Northern Ireland Customs Post which was destroyed by a suitcase bomb during the Troubles. It is all that remains of a one-time rival to the filling station across the road.
Image: Frankie McPhillips
