The Brevity of Things.
The cold of Connaught Street at seven AM
-blue spring air rushing the lungs.
Morning newspapers thump off the closed shop door ahead
The empty road is a luxurious silence but for the ghosts of old Athlone.
A mournful and nearly naked Cherry Blossom hangs over Talbot Avenue,
Walking the pink petal road, the canal shimmers and flashes, twinkling into life.
The still water is a perfect canvas; broken down dinghies now symmetrical masterpieces,
the surrounding flowers frame a colourful and dizzying inversion of reality,
all blue and yellow brilliance, sheer mirrors.
The curious fish will wash away the illusion,
with a bubble and a pop, all is now lost in a tiny sea of infinite ripples.
Just a flicker of serenity, a reminder; the brevity of things.
The golden mile starts with a crunch; kicking the dust on the yellow brick road.
We twist and contort, waving uselessly into clouds of midges and blinding sunlight.
The joggers come thumping around the bend; panting, spitting, crossing paths but not locking eyes
The iron man and the amateur silently motivate each other; speeding up, exhaling heavily into the icy air.
Now adrift in the distance, they morph into wild, smoking silhouettes.
Turning into the sun now, the bells will start peeling soon,
rendering the same song heard every hour; too repetitive to love, too melodious to despise.
Two and a half clicks later, and once more, down at the lock.
A white light and we`re home,
a reminder, the brevity of things.
The cold of Connaught Street at seven AM
-blue spring air rushing the lungs.
Morning newspapers thump off the closed shop door ahead
The empty road is a luxurious silence but for the ghosts of old Athlone.
A mournful and nearly naked Cherry Blossom hangs over Talbot Avenue,
Walking the pink petal road, the canal shimmers and flashes, twinkling into life.
The still water is a perfect canvas; broken down dinghies now symmetrical masterpieces,
the surrounding flowers frame a colourful and dizzying inversion of reality,
all blue and yellow brilliance, sheer mirrors.
The curious fish will wash away the illusion,
with a bubble and a pop, all is now lost in a tiny sea of infinite ripples.
Just a flicker of serenity, a reminder; the brevity of things.
The golden mile starts with a crunch; kicking the dust on the yellow brick road.
We twist and contort, waving uselessly into clouds of midges and blinding sunlight.
The joggers come thumping around the bend; panting, spitting, crossing paths but not locking eyes
The iron man and the amateur silently motivate each other; speeding up, exhaling heavily into the icy air.
Now adrift in the distance, they morph into wild, smoking silhouettes.
Turning into the sun now, the bells will start peeling soon,
rendering the same song heard every hour; too repetitive to love, too melodious to despise.
Two and a half clicks later, and once more, down at the lock.
A white light and we`re home,
a reminder, the brevity of things.