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.