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Snow Hope
- Jim Brown
- May 2
- 3 min read
Updated: 4 days ago
Snow Hope is a poem about Belfast in the late 1980’s/early 1990’s when there was change in the air as the city slowly began to rejuvenate itself after years of troubles and decline.
Many places are visited on a winter’s journey through the city. Those who were young back in those times will no doubt recall their own connections and memories. Some of the places mentioned still exist but many have disappeared as times and economic conditions have changed the city’s landscape
This video was put together by my cousin Hazel Renshaw who attended a poetry evening and filmed it on her phone. She then scoured the web tracking down images of places I had mentioned and put the whole lot together with a few special effects and background music. I think it is a fantastic piece of work and hope it will encourage viewers to make a donation to The Alzheimers Society.
Alzheimers and Dementia are growing problems in our society and unfortunately I know too many who are fading as this insidious disease slowly obliterates their personalities or indeed has led to their passing away. These are difficult times for fund raising so if you enjoyed the poem and video please make a donation to the good work of The Alzheimers Society through the Just Giving link. It’s a very worthy cause.
Snow Hope.
Off the train at Botanic, as the first flakes drift down,
A little flurry of winter melting on the dirty ground.
Out onto the Avenue, pulling the scarf snuggly tight,
Walking into a city bathed in winters enfeebled light.
Looking across at the Arts, cramped venue of many a show,
Outside coloured lights work to create a seasonal glow.
Through Shafstbury Square casting an eye to Speranzas,
Purveyor of great pizza, as good as any Italian mammas!
Past those strange sixties mummies, pinned to the Ulster Bank,
Above the subterranean toilets, their odor disinfected and dank.
Onto the Dublin Road and the Elbow bulging at the seams,
Conversations spilling from windows, a buzz with future dreams.
Snow more heavy now, drifting down as a smothering shroud,
Conquering the pavements dampness, dusting the Christmas crowd.
Muffling footsteps as we head past loud Larry’s piano bar,
Memories of singing and dancing on tables with some Euro star.
Dublin Road merges to Bedford Street, home of the Ulster Hall,
All those concerts blasting young energy around its Victorian walls.
Chanting for an Alternative Ulster, anthem of Stiff Little Fingers,
Is it coming I wonder? For change is about and the echo lingers.
Around the back of the grandiose glamour of the city hall,
Grime blackened statues, green domes topping it all.
Stern Victoria watching from beside the Christmas tree,
Looking across to Royal Avenue, now Ring of Steel free.
Yes, pedestrianised now, Belfast becoming the modern town,
Goodbye to all those queues and being frisked up and down.
Browsing and buying Christmas gifts, books from Waterstones,
Checking Harrisons for showbiz news, tickets for the Undertones.
Moseying around Woolworths, then off to the Kitchen Bar,
Meeting old friend Stephen for lunch, some chat and a jar.
Jammed in a corner table, as Pat and his aproned team,
Serve us Kitchen Bar specials in a fug of banter and nicotine.
Emerging to a new world, for the snow now lies deep,
City sounds muffled, re-energized light brightens the street.
And though the cold bites, and black clouds are still threatening,
We feel elated as we pad through this bright new setting.
Down through Pottengers Entry, an ancient alley dark this day,
Ominious, but the Morning Star shines out and lights the way.
Crossing High Street where mariners once unloaded their ships,
Gloves purchased at Jacksons Sports for freezing finger tips.
On to Braddles angling shop, the snow squeaking under our feet,
To check out the latest gear, in their store on North Street.
Feathered fly’s, shiny lures, all designed to deceive by looks,
All promising success, but we know too well…look out for hooks!
One final visitation, some seasonal charity before our final goal,
To visit the cathedral and Black Santa at his vigil in the cold.
Stamping his feet as chill winds bite through to the bone,
On his patch of flattened snow, on the steps of Portland Stone.
On through the dilapidation of what was sailors town,
Changing times, and hard times had dragged the sailors down.
But at the end of a dingy street, now deep in fluffy snow,
Our final destination, doors open and a welcome yellow glow.
And the sounds spilling out are of the fiddle and the flute,
For this is the Rotterdam, where tradition has a deep, deep root.
It has survived all those dark times when the horizon was forlorn,
So we sing and toast a hopeful future in a Belfast town reborn.
Jim Brown Jan 2024
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