Lá Fhéile Pádraig
I walked along the Strand this morning.
It was me, the runners, the street sweepers and the homeless.
Sat beneath the golden arches of this age’s royalty.
Reluctant to part with even a hal’penny now for their taxed electricity.
Scents of chip oil and salt.
“Never ending salad all day every day” the inscription on the door reads.
I share the street with matted hair, damp dusty jeans, cardboard mattress’ and sleeping bags. Flatcaps still warn with a peacock feather on one side: the wandering Irish.
I pass a black corvine feather, soaked to the cement among the cardboard, rapidly being swept up or blown away on the early morning breeze.
A few doors down tea cups and saucers jingle. Taxi cabs doors swing open and closed loosely. Well tailored suits behind glass windows, which I have sat behind.
Foreign fine bone china in hand - but still always milk first.
Back down through cockney cobbled alleyways to the waterfront.
Under cement tunnels and railway bridges like the iron ribcages of long dead whales or other giants.
Until safely back south of the river.