Ireland Between Two Tides
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 quilt,
holding the stories that famine built.
Connemara mist rolls low and clear,
you’d swear the past still lingers near.
And under the moon at Spanish Arch,
young hearts meet where old ones marched—
a place where laughter and longing dance,
in rhythm with Galway’s strange romance.
Two cities, two tides, one motherland—
rain-slicked roads and cold white sand.
Where the present walks with ghosts in tow,
and every pub has a tale to show.
Ireland listens—quiet, wide-eyed—
to the sea’s soft hush and countryside.
And whether you go or whether you stay,
she’ll hold you like home, either way.
— Meenakshi Singh
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