Clearing a Space A man should clear a space for himself, Like Dublin city on a Sunday morning about six o’clock. All Dublin itself are rid of our traffic then, And I walk. Houses are solitary and dignified, Streets are adventures twisting in and out, And up and down my mind. The river’s talking to itself and doesn’t care if i eavesdrop. No longer flooded with purpose, The city turns to the mountains and takes time to listen to the sea, And I witness all three communing in silence, Under a relaxed sky. Bridges look aloof and protective. The gates of the park are closed, Green places must have their privacy too. Office blocks are empty, important, and a bit pathetic if they admitted it. The small hills of this city are truly surprising when they emerge in that early morning light, Nobody’s ever walked on them yet, They await the first explorers to straggle in from the needy north And squat down here, this minute, A weary legion between the cathedral and the river. At the gates of conquest they might enjoy a deep, uninterrupted sleep. To having knew so much, And without mercy and still be capable of rediscovering yourself, The old nakedness is what makes a friend of this city when sleep has failed. I make through that nakedness to stumble on my own, Surprised to find a city so like a man. Statues and monuments check me out as i pass, Clearing a space for myself the best i can, One Sunday morning, The original son, In Dublin.
Posted on: Sun, 08 Sep 2013 20:22:05 +0000
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