On the side of old Cavehill, one leaf-blown autumn day.
The island wool in my Belfast jacket kept the chill at bay.
A pen and notebook from my pocket caught the shifting light,
That turned the greens and browns to grey as day gave way to night.
Walking back from old Cavehill, I thought of days gone by.
When scutchers, beetlers, spinners, made Linenapolis thrive.
But wait! – my Belfast jacket weaves a story of its own.
The trades of old are still alive around my northern home.