Ireland Between Two Tides
The sky breaks soft over Dublin Bay, where gulls trace letters the poets say, and the Liffey runs like a quiet thought through cobbled streets the rebels sought. Bronze of Joyce with his tilted hat, pints pulled slow in Temple Bar chat— history leans in Georgian grace, while cranes write futures in glass and space. Here, voices rise with the rush-hour rain, the hum of buses, the weight of trains, but even in all that granite and grey, there’s music in what the stones won’t say. In Merrion Park, a child chases leaves— you’d almost forget the old country grieves, yet heals herself in layers of song, in the lilt of tongues that don’t stay long. Westward now to Galway’s shore, where the sky feels older, and speaks more. The Corrib rages—a river in haste— as if time is water and none to waste. Shop Street sings with busker cries, and fiddles echo where the seagull flies. A man paints seascapes on a street café wall; the Atlantic wind doesn’t ask—it calls. Stone walls weave through emerald q...