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!