Under The Palm Trees

Under the fan splayed leaves
 of Dublin City's potted palm trees
 half blinded by the faint autumn sun
 dying to descend it's winter death 
 still strong enough to illuminate 
  grey clouds with white fringes
 too weak to fight the shortening season
 surrendering the air to a winter chill
 I sit in the rumble of passing cars
 and squealing seagulls do not care.

 Accents of the hibernian middle
 mingle with the opiate addicted
 and cockney tourists led by the
 all knowing father of loud declaration
 cuts through the middle of a coven 
 of frenetic babbling of Latin energy
 laughing in unison across the Liffey
 pass silent man in sleeping bag shroud huddled under the palm trees of Dublin
 and squealing seagulls do not care.

Ciaran Burke