Quayside, Early Morning.
I watch them stroll along the side,
A scraggy dog, a haggard bride,
And here am I,
Where wretched lie
Struggling towards the quays.
Emaciated, and falling now,
With heavy heart and furrowed brow,
And Lord, what God would this allow
Effigy falls on earthen knees.
Though peckish, know not hunger they,
Who stroll past the monument toward the fray,
This, Custom House Quay,
Flails out miserably to sea
And yuppies pay their silent respects.
Not real hunger since, hath smite the breast
Of devout heart and Irish chest,
And so they be forgotten lest
A sculpture, which present time neglects.
The waste- water weaves away from me,
Leaving but coarse modernity,
Garish neon signs,
And those perpetually creaking spines
Both have their place at waters edge.
Bustling, briefcases, past they stride,
Strong-minded, self-consumed besides,
And histories swept away by tides
The water that we dare not dredge.