Wandering home,
Along Westland Row,
My fingers firmly pocketed,
Hood up over my
Festively red cheeks,
Puffing away like
The old steam train
From Hollyhead to Kingstown,
Each breath hung
Deathly still
In the air ahead of me
Before being cleft in two
By my nose and the
Rest of my face.
And suddenly,
It began to snow
And I cast my eyes skyward
As the drunks began singing
Some old Christmas song.
Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 