01-16-2014, 10:40 PM
Opinions on the colloquialisms in particular would be appreciated. This was written with a very specific audience in mind but I'm hoping it has some wider resonance.
The bus lolls and rolls
through the bypass roundabout.
The flat glare of a fine new year day
tints the cabin with monochromatic tones
of by gone times, acutely framing time gone by,
highlighting broad bay windows
of vacant retail units drifting past.
Shells, fossils from a more prosperous era
when worries were few.
It was for different reasons then that people flew.
Lough Ramor flows from my west to my north
and the sight of the southernmost drumlin near Carnaross
raises a lump in my throat.
"They have them in the States" I'm told,
but I'm certain they're not the same.
Fields awash with melted snow
and remnants of recent hail
blur beside me,
a scene bluer than green today.
Sweeping onto the N3 upgrade,
the "new road" as it's known,
a previously arduous trip
will disappear in a clip.
As homesteads turn to homes,
to semi-detacheds, to apartment complexes,
we arc across an overpass
onto the M50 Dublin City ring road,
now a pain free traffic management node.
Perhaps we have made progrss after all.
Terminal 1 soon looms on our left
and a strange melancholic echo
resounds in the glum cabin air
when the driver needlessly advises
"We've arrived at Dublin airport".
Luggage doors operate
and slumped shoulders struggle with bags
heavier now, despite the absence of duty free.
Passengers lug and plod,
wheeling past the odd solitary explorer
sucking a last cigarette,
surrounded by lover's kisses
young sibling's carefree shrugs
vicelike motherly hugs
stiff pats delivered to backs
and firm, lingering handshakes.
Restrained tender respect.
Typically Hibernian.
All unwatched by a laddered man
slowly unhooking the last of the season's twinkle.
No one here is away for a break.
The departing have it easier.
Afforded the sterile anaesthesia
of bag drops and security checks
(always unsure of your legality)
boarding calls, safety demonstrations,
baggage carousels and a destination,
transported from nostalgia's source.
Unlike the fur lined wax coated loved ones
trudging back to grim stacked shelves of cars,
still to retrace a familiar route.
This time in darkness.
Hands fiercely clasp upon a gear stick.
The anchor of grounded emotion now airborne
soft sobs reverberate amidst the white noise
slow motion strobe of the motorway.
An emptier car streaming
towards an emptier house.
But later, once expensive phone calls
have confirmed safe arrivals
orthodromic distances
evaporate at the click of two kettles.
Freshly smuggled batches of Lyons,
or Barry's, brew in scalded pots
and two cups of sweet tea
soothe the last of the day's dejection.
A warm reminder, redolent of home,
that place is no measure
of whether we're alone.
The bus lolls and rolls
through the bypass roundabout.
The flat glare of a fine new year day
tints the cabin with monochromatic tones
of by gone times, acutely framing time gone by,
highlighting broad bay windows
of vacant retail units drifting past.
Shells, fossils from a more prosperous era
when worries were few.
It was for different reasons then that people flew.
Lough Ramor flows from my west to my north
and the sight of the southernmost drumlin near Carnaross
raises a lump in my throat.
"They have them in the States" I'm told,
but I'm certain they're not the same.
Fields awash with melted snow
and remnants of recent hail
blur beside me,
a scene bluer than green today.
Sweeping onto the N3 upgrade,
the "new road" as it's known,
a previously arduous trip
will disappear in a clip.
As homesteads turn to homes,
to semi-detacheds, to apartment complexes,
we arc across an overpass
onto the M50 Dublin City ring road,
now a pain free traffic management node.
Perhaps we have made progrss after all.
Terminal 1 soon looms on our left
and a strange melancholic echo
resounds in the glum cabin air
when the driver needlessly advises
"We've arrived at Dublin airport".
Luggage doors operate
and slumped shoulders struggle with bags
heavier now, despite the absence of duty free.
Passengers lug and plod,
wheeling past the odd solitary explorer
sucking a last cigarette,
surrounded by lover's kisses
young sibling's carefree shrugs
vicelike motherly hugs
stiff pats delivered to backs
and firm, lingering handshakes.
Restrained tender respect.
Typically Hibernian.
All unwatched by a laddered man
slowly unhooking the last of the season's twinkle.
No one here is away for a break.
The departing have it easier.
Afforded the sterile anaesthesia
of bag drops and security checks
(always unsure of your legality)
boarding calls, safety demonstrations,
baggage carousels and a destination,
transported from nostalgia's source.
Unlike the fur lined wax coated loved ones
trudging back to grim stacked shelves of cars,
still to retrace a familiar route.
This time in darkness.
Hands fiercely clasp upon a gear stick.
The anchor of grounded emotion now airborne
soft sobs reverberate amidst the white noise
slow motion strobe of the motorway.
An emptier car streaming
towards an emptier house.
But later, once expensive phone calls
have confirmed safe arrivals
orthodromic distances
evaporate at the click of two kettles.
Freshly smuggled batches of Lyons,
or Barry's, brew in scalded pots
and two cups of sweet tea
soothe the last of the day's dejection.
A warm reminder, redolent of home,
that place is no measure
of whether we're alone.