Alban Eiler

Shirley-Anne Kennedy

Dublin in March. Sunday.
Even Molly Malone’s quiet.
Though it’s still noisy in the cafe
serving all day breakfasts.
The Guinness in The Castle Bar
goes down a treat and encourages
the pagan in you to smile
at the boy from the University,
the one with a novel secreted
in the inside pocket of his overcoat.
When he moves in close, whispers
he wants you to see the Book of Kells
it feels like the whole country is listening.
You can hear the disapproving looks
of the women in headscarves on the bus.
You feel the hares gathering in the fields,
the moon edging closer with his breathing.
The lilt of his voice. The heat of his body.
The light in his eyes in the morning.

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