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.
The road rambles into the decline,
One way to go, nowhere else to be.
The fresh water hurries to meet the sand, to wash with it to the sea.
Golden stretch in stone green embrace beneath a blanket of grey,
Torn to reveal a flash of blue,
and a golden promise behind the hill.