Walking over O’Connell bridge in central Dublin

On this freezing morning. Body hunched, coat pulled

Tight. Hearing the cries of seagulls, or is it the hawkers

In Henry Street? Over in Blackrock, Éamon de Valera,

Has begun to die. The sky is heavy with snow

As in Joyce’s The Dead. I walk to Bewleys

In Grafton Street, dispense with my fluttering

Of snow as I take off my overcoat. Take out

The Irish Times and a pack of Sweet Afton

I scratch a match, fill my lungs with smoke

Exhale. Remove a thread of tobacco from my tongue

Smile at the waitress, a country girl, order coffee.

Think about the future, that border country,

All those unmarked roads, into the north.