Lucan Weir

Dermot Bolger

Will you walk with me here, beside Lucan weir,
Past flowering rush, kingfishers, green figworth,


Your palm so young in mine, your palm frayed with age:
Each generation a whirling leaf sluiced into this cascade.


Will you recall the ordinary afternoon when we paused,
Amid the rush of busy lives, to stare at the torrential spume,


Hypnotised by the ceaseless deluge until it seemed in fact,
That what remains constant and static is this surging weir,


With all our joys, our dreams, our lives spiralling past,
Down each speeded-up season, each irreclaimable year.

 

Lucan Weir

 

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