This week we continue a poetry series that celebrates the River Suck with John Malachy Raftery. Sitting Ducks In the lazy course of a subsequent Shiven paddle, some angry lines were written ‘with a dump in the throat’. That the discontents of our hyper-consumption society had to go elsewhere was a boon for that community, a plague perhaps for another. C’est la vie. Line written with a Dump in the Throat These our townlands, Sprung deep from an ancient land Of peat and walled-in farms under peat, Newbridge, Newforest, Toomard, Boggauns, Fruit of nature, salt of the good earth, Undivided race of an undisturbed horizon, Pulling together, one for all, for generations, Pulling generations together, all for one, Living in peace, peace with a long lease, Our townlands, these. Our well, our water source, Springs in you – fatcat Waste Manager With your city pallor, urban patter –  A snide, a surly spate of sarcasm. As if it were a Holly Well, some shrine Where ignorant local yokel peasants pray. You think of coming in the night, devil-thief, Hell-bent on shrieking our your mad logic, On desecration, stooping to relieve yourself Of your excremental waste, in this our well. Waste not in our faces, up our noses, baiting rats. Want not these our places, stuff your poses dumpocrats. We have your measure – railroad us at your pleasure. Smart-suited strangers see the dangers of enslaving freerangers. Not and inch here will you get, in a clinch this badger set Will claw you down, gnaw and gnash until you drown In a wellspring of unanimous opposition. We have ignition. In Newbridge, Toomard, Boggauns, black flags in strangs Flew from every pole on the death of Bobby Sands. Pike still in the thatch, we march in  step with steady hands.