Celts Once Worshipped the Sun

On the sixth sunny day in Dublin,
half-naked women rush down Grafton
unveiling the planet’s palest skin.
Some angle baby-loaded buggies
through dense crowds like New York at Christmas.
Double-decker buses whirl around
the tightest corners. Music makers

lean on Molly Malone’s brass bottom,
add to the ceaseless clatter, chatter.
Some of the million-plus residents
escape behind thick walls of shrubs, trees,
bushes abloom in St. Stephen’s Green.
They gaze at James Joyce’s sparkling lake,
busy swans look for lunch from children.

Men tear off shirts, lie down on the grass.
A dad shows his baby son cygnets.
At dark quiet edges of the park
a man, a woman sit on benches.
All the peace of the city hides here.
Joyce, the bust, stares at stuff he still can’t see
but loves as much as he adores Nora.