Because in order to see in the dark

You must first totally accept it

The more you accept it and let it be

The clearer you can see again



In order to fully hear amongst a great din

You must first allow the din to wash over you

You must first totally accept it

And not be caught up in its small complexities or details

As Friday’s sun descends

A manic grip takes hold of the city.



Shoreditch on Shabbat like

A holy land for revellers.



Here the city ignites, the senses

Are at once dulled and overworked



Suits pull suitcases. Weekend trips

Coincide with business meets



Filling hotel lobby bars

The Ace, card dealt on payments.



Shaven bleached heads

Sidestep less fortunates



Begging for more, more, more

As night turns to morning



And mourning the nighttime

Bodies dance through



As sun ascends - bleaching the eye

but beholden because it let’s us go.

I



A plane touches down

And safely carries you to a land

less crowded than London’s bustling streets.

Foreign, warmer climates

That sufficiently cater for wine and feasts.

Land that carries blood through its Black River,

Excuses to not swim in Summer’s heat.

A southern tip that travellers will visit and disparage

A separation of two cultures

As if history teaches nothing

And geography misplaces some from another





II



A plane touches down

And safely carries me to a land

I call home. Where surroundings are

less crowded than London’s bustling streets.

Where old friends gather

To celebrate all those returning home.

The pubs more filled than churches.

Worshippers huddle under a heater,

Hands clasping a pint of black.

A separation of two cultures

once again this year’s Christmas dinner discussion.

As if history teaches nothing

And geography misplaces some from another.

But today, we count ourselves lucky

To sit here as one family.

“You look quite level”

Her dyed red hair was slicked back

And black eyeliner hid the feeling in her eyes



The man's white beard covered his mouth

Kept his words under a white blanket

Like snow covering over a crevice

Ready to fall through



She repeats most sentences

But adds the word "totally"

Adding dramatic effect by providing a level

Of fullness - totality.



Her laugh fills the room - totally.

But in no way with warmth

It’s sharpness is rude to me.



Those around ignore its shrillness

As if scared to admit their own

Inclination for negativity - to scorn a laugh.

Sitting in the best seat in Dublin
Gives a chance to watch the city
In its rawest way.

The outlet store that has the opposing view
And been gated for years
Is still closed. Its roof a bus shelter.

A woman walks by
Eating ice cream.
It’s Christmas in Dublin

And I imagine Roddy Doyle seeing the funny side.
The Chinese are eating a Cornetto
While we’re hiding from the rain - he might say.

Here, I know, is a piece of home
Always patiently waiting.

I



I count the stories,

craning my neck

from a first floor vantage point

through glass walls



Blue hats match their buckets,

belts holding cloths and squeegees

and them.

A harness that protects their lives.



At least 30 stories, I think.

300 feet of glass

with a view of grey

tower blocks, a cityscape.



At the ground floor they land with a thud

Harness unlatched

A gentle nod to each other.

Ropes fall freely from high



II



In Lahinch I stand at the summit

of a 30 foot cliff face.

One hand holding my belt

The other my rope.



My harness is attached to another

who explains my next steps

But here I’m alone,

unlatched.


Legs quiver under no real weight.

A western breeze crosses my face,

beside me a plant grows through the rock,

the sound of a stream nearby that I’ll cross.



But for now I stand atop this cliff face

seeking my life experience.

Face pointed upward, I let myself down.

Ropes fall freely below.

Like Brigadoon,

I'll return yearly.

To see old friends

that never grow but always age.

Time passing fades memory.



But when I turn off the M50

down the rat run

by the shops that we hid behind for a smoke,

nostalgia grips.

The Old Road - bested by a bypass

bringing Saturday shoppers to their Mecca -

lies as it always has:

small potholes and loosened chips.

Forgotten, but in a good way.



The pristine flowerbeds

void of rosebuds

but filled with cigarette butts

at this time of year.

Yet, still kept, looked after.



And a home

scented by hot-tottied cloves,

pined needles

seeking shelter

amongst the red and gold

and good reason to believe it’s here -

with candles adorning windows,

a sign of compassionate welcome.

At least at this one time every year.