River through city
Street lights burning like candles
Icing bus shelter
Tag: dublin
Pavement
I
Maple leaves on O’Connell Bridge
Floating down the Liffey
Red hand of Ulster
Three crowns of Munster
Feathers flickering
one Seagull under lights
It’s not late enough to fall in the river.
II
Tired grey beard
losing the colour of life
Flat cap, caipín
Breasts striding by
Brown Thomas bag
with a black umbrella
coming from Grafton street.
Luas bell warning
Time to get a move on before it’s too late.
Long hair flapping
on Dawson Street,
out west violent wind.
Trail finders walking by
“Injury Time” on display
“Wolf Man and Water-Hounds”
“Have you seen the Dublin vampire?”
a window for browsing readers.
Another bell, another Luas,
that soft strong wind.
III
Carluccio’s is not the best place to be cremated.
Plastic flower
in an extra dry Prosecco bottle,
white King Protea facing the door.
Crema, a thimble of hot water
diluting its bitter companion.
witness the knife and fork
slice an almond croissant
scattering icing sugar.
Cool in the mouth.
“Thank you very much”
to a Palestinian smile,
a time for thinking,
alone in company
with an afternoon snack .
Cutlery crashing,
any second now,
settle the bill.
— There may be time to die .
Answers
Answers
“Why was I born?”
called the Jackdaw to the Raven.
“What’s the purpose of my life?”
whispered Piglet to Ratty.
“What does it mean?”
hissed Michelangelo to Raphael
with sour on his face.
“Where am I going?”
shouted a Dublin woman from the Northside
to Molly Malone.
“When will my answer be enough?”
I said to myself.
People who have no imagination
People who have no imagination
‘Twas wet outside the RDS in Ballsbridge,
under the bus shelter there was light against dark outside.
It wasn’t that I had no raincoat
(I’d saved money on showers)
nor the 2,016 strides to the Summit pub
– it was strangers-in-want that held my attention,
the black and the white
Mozambique and Mill Street,
Marrabenta and Riverdance.
They were talking in pauses
and the back of her hand brushed his sleeve.
I bet neither of them remembers
the advertising placed by Adshel.
I was the only eavesdropper
with tickling drops of Irish moisture
massaging my humour.
You might well say there are “people who have no imagination”
but certainly they weren’t waiting for a lift.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 