Gently in the night flows my river, the Liffey.

It is mine by right of love, this river always

Running, since childhood, under my feet, always

Branching along my veins—this river of birds,

Avenue of serene, Ascendancy swans,

Trail of the single gunman cormorant,

Stage of the seagulls’ ballet—those faery visitors

Who cry and perch and fly, blown in the air

Like paper toys.

Tonight there are no birds;

The thickening mist blinds me to all but light.

By day small painted boats, wings

Of coloured parrots, tighten their holding ropes

And lie beside the wall. Pale women

Hurry across the bridges, dawdle at windows,

Treasure their handbags, intent on finding bargains.

Crowds at the rush-hour of a Spring afternoon

Move in the clean patterns of thrown confetti.

But now

In fog the city covers all its candour.

From windowed vehicles the light

Imprints a moving tartan on the water;

And where a street-lamp hangs a luminous triangle,

There, mirrored, a three-sided corresponding

Euclidean figure breaks the river's blackness,

Base to base applied, with lamp-post perpendicular

And tree subtending.

Now

Where are the seabirds? Do they fly

At day's end to the sea, to spend the night

One-legged on rock, in thought?

When, rarely, moves a patch

Of faint illumination on the darkest water,

Then are discovered small waiting forms,

Patiently floating, homeless, through the dark

They do not understand. Silence

Holds them, until daylight.