When I sit beside you on your cold bronze seat, regard your sturdy features, crossed arms and legs, I can’t believe you had it all that bad living here near the banks of the Grand Canal.
Even on a January day with traffic you had blue sky, winter trees reflected in the water, a moorhen moving out from hiding in the reeds, the mallards sailing calmly in ripples of their own making.
You had the grace of swans, the calling gulls, the water spilling from the locks – a sound you termed redemption – and often when you looked through the narrow eye of a bridge you were rewarded by fantastic light.
Cast for ever in this forbidding reverie, you want no sycophantic chit-chat, small-talk or analysis so I follow your gaze back to the water, to those everydays of nature, remembering how you deemed them plenty,
your respect for arguments that couldn’t be proven.
Mary O’Brien (from Waiting for the Lights, Boland Press, first published in Southword 2014.