I remember walking
through the streets of Dublin of a night,
Well half walking,
half running: I was in a hurry.
I’m always in a hurry
The wind was whipping old newspapers
around my legs. The discarded leaves
of yesterday’s discoverings and reflections.
It was a cold, desperate night.
All the grey black, boarded up windows
of the creative imagination’s misplaced courage.
Cigarette smoke and misty tears.
The two lovers waiting at the bus-stop
with the broken glass.
I remember them and the uneasy looks in their eyes,
which wouldn’t meet. And their cold hands
And through the scratched and yellowed glass of the train window,
the simple lights of Bray twinkling
way off in the distance.