Purveyors of fine food since God knows when,
O’Connor’s have them lined up on their display
along with scores of angels and reindeer.
Michelin clouds are drifting from the glen,
dragging their bulk and leaking all the way,
impaling themselves onto a chapel spear.
The crib, what's the big deal for a farmer’s son?
He saw his cows and sheep through foot-and-mouth scare,
Wise Men in pubs and Josephs on the run.
Christmas in Ireland is a glib affair,
merging into the Flood. And every year
he expects his crib to turn into the Ark,
to sprout masts and sails, and to embark
on a long journey through the Main Street towards the Square.
Tuck your Lee and your Liffey into their respective beds
of varicose marble and put them away forever.
Your waterproof shrouds are gone to shreds
and won’t stand mending. So it’s time to sever
whatever Celtic connections you spun from the fluff
of your dog-eared Penguins, endangered species,
from poems grown in vitro, from huff-and-puff
of Aga spirits cultured in Petri dishes
of cold windows. And so enough is said.
Luggage is ready, and the watery morning brightens.
Taxi is waiting. A soft ball of loosened thread
spins and rolls and threatens to crush the Titans.