Christmas Lights

Christmastime in Dublin, from poetry with a small p.

Writing from poetry with a small p.

  • The Christmas lights
    are up in the city
    and the pavement is glittering.
    All seems well in the world.
    I am waiting for my bus
    at the edge of the river,
    not staring in, but shivering
    for the want of warmth.
    On evenings like this,
    when the wind
    cuts up the Liffey channel,
    the rain, piercing cold,
    forces us to fold
    in upon ourselves.
    With hats, scarves and
    hoods pulled tight;
    only our eyes exposed.
    The thin seasonal songs
    carry over rooftops
    from full florescent shops
    and drop lightly, chimes,
    over the darkened quay.
    To avoid the pokes
    from spokes of umbrellas,
    I bat them away
    as I begin to jockey
    for position in the queue.
    My bus arrives.
    We file quietly on,
    struggle to loosen
    and shed our outer clothing,
    then, sink into our seats.
    I lean my forehead
    against the window
    and watch through
    twinkling raindrops
    as the…

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