Observations on Aston Quay
One dreary, drizzly spring morning, early April 2014, I stood on the O’Connell Street Bridge in Dublin, Ireland, waiting to meet my arts class, and wrote this poem.
Gray Liffey
gray clouds
gray streets
gray cigarette butts
gum flattened gray
gray trees
gray streetlamps
gray faces reflect
on gray cars
in gray puddles
Gray pigeons strut
on gray sidewalks
between gray-clad legs
of gray-tempered morning commuters
gray seagulls bob
on rippled gray water
Sleepy gray neon signs
Gray ponchos
gray umbrellas
gray shop awnings
glimmer with gray raindrops
Bright-painted stores and pubs
seem garish
out of place—
the iridescent blue
on the tail of the magpie
hopping around the gray façade
of gray O’Connell Street Bridge
chasing a gray bug
is the true color.