no wonder Dublin can be all grey and misty-eyed sometimes, one far too many sorry farewells causing her fine crockery face to be moistened, more than she ever deserved, soft tears of forgotten legacies. how many sons and daughters does she mourn for?
on heavily-laden ships they departed, dreaming of more than broken eggs in carts and dark-eyed girls selling cockles by the Royal Canal. some famous ones have celebrated her in their musings, but they never returned, their words unable to soften the siren of absence.
sheets of nostalgia sweep over her, in from the sea and along the thick shoulders of the Liffey, but her faded cotton is being exchanged now for lace and silk. finally, her head can be held high above the new pavements of celtic hope, her auburn hair can be left to fall freely.
she takes in the young and the new, in amongst the folds of her generous skirt, treating her new babies to a famous glow and tireless, rich humour. from a grand height she will also steal time to rejoice, pleased to welcome home some of her frail and wandering flock.
her mistiness will always come and go though, her emerald eyes straining back to many generations, the hunger, all the years of missing places at tables. she weeps for the children of Erin, for whom she’s had to brave a goodbye, for whom the siren continues to wail.
© Copyright, 2006. Shameless Words.