Poetrythe opening serve, so to speak, goes to Rosie– she pushes another empty wheelchairward to ward and our heads follow…she was my father’s tennis partner(a soft server, Mum whispers)Cue the slow-mo, forty love, the social night compof the Lower...

FictionTHIS IS 1975, over a hundred and twenty years since the event, and I don't reckon history is that important but Dad sent me along because Mr Doyle wants a photo of the old massacre site and the graves....