Portobello Bridge
Twice a day I carry my soul over water.
The seedy canal blackened by car exhaust.
When first I came to the footbridge
at the lock, as a child
with fishing net and pinkeen pot,
it was through Little Jerusalem:
the avenues of exile,
past the synagogue that is now the mosque.
On the long road with dome
and campanile, steps to the doors
and life above the shops,
the town clock faces four ways at once,
chimneys sprout weeds
and windows reveal
lodging-rooms with lanterns
of papier-mache.
Twice a day I cross the bridge
at Portobello, look to the hills
or leave them behind
in their morning glory beyond Rathmines.
Mid-Century Sunday
In those days soon after mid-century
the dead air of Sunday was like a sedative.
It settled on the Dublin Mountains
and Garden of Remembrance.
The radio was a choice
between Dixieland, plainchant
or the shipping forecast told in snatches.
It was the day of darkest moods,
of rain as black as the Sunday prayerbook
and streets all silent
except for the marching band
whose tunes I loved
as much as their walk of righteousness:
the swagger in the way
the musicians advanced,
playing their anthem without looking back.
Sunday Morning in Romania
Beware of the dogs, they said.
The ones in packs
that roam the boulevards of Bucharest.
But it is the multitudes on their journey
- between one lost village and the next –
that jam the roads and turn them
into something carnivalesque.
A team of horses stops the traffic,
two of them like sleepwalkers
ambling forth in unison
close to the roadside grass.
Last night’s wedding guests have gone
leaving a trace of havoc
in the celebration hall:
ashtrays brimming, bottles drained,
the circle broken where they danced the hora
as if to dance was all that mattered.
The silver churches dazzle heaven.
In the Sunday market
there is always one who walks ahead
of everyone else to rummage and haggle
and do the deal with the hawkers selling
craftwork, table-lace, watermelon.
