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

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