The eighth of December

Dublin. Pic: William Murphy

Dublin.
Pic: William Murphy

Every eighth of December rushes into one,

A memory dropping away, leaving just lights and traffic and mothers and young children

Green Dublin buses, darkening winter streets, throngs crossing.

But present always – a blaze of lights, which I still see, 30 years later.

That drew us, pushing, hand-in-hand, across Grafton and Henry and O’Connell Streets

One more shop, one more cup of tea.

‘Do we have time, before the train?’

Every eighth of December was a rush to the 90 bus, at teatime, down the long Liffey to Heuston.

This is gone, as is she, as is the ten-year-old who was with her.

But the lights remain, every eighth of December.

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