by Finbarr Shanley
The night is tonight or any other night
that the green ship slips her moorings and sadly moves from the
river's mouth and heads for the east. Hands dig deeper into pockets
and the Custom House clock is seen through the mist of squinted eyes
and shoes stamp on hardwood and shoulders are hunched though not from
cold.
These are the have-nots and over there
on that rising ground the lights of the haves reflect the
self-righteousness and the light house lamp now beamed towards the
Wicklow shore shines the last goodbye.
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