Crumlin, of a Sunday
The rain. Unrelenting.
Cats and dogs.
The dreary architecture of the souless
grey-brown urban landscape
worthy of the matchstick man fella
But. Hopeful.
The smokers hunched by the bookies,
beside the battlecruiser. Handy.
A cosy camaraderie with a common denominator
No judgement; but wonder or at least inquisitiveness
I envy them; I'm not of their clan
They are the self determined grassroots,
as politicians like to say
A certain folksy wisdom prevails
Later; the grim realities unveil
But. Enough!
Have the craic, lads
Have the craic!
Copyright © James Smyth | Year Posted 2019
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