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December in Dublin (Marcella Boccia)
December in Dublin (Marcella Boccia)
The Liffey moves like an old hymn,slow, thick with the weight of winter.Mist hangs in the bones of the city,soft as breath on a lover’s throat.Grafton Street glows in the amber hush,gold light pooling in puddles of night.Shop windows blink like tired eyes,tinsel-framed and full of want.A girl in a red coat spins in the rain,arms open to the hush of December,while a busker sings of exile,his voice rough as salt on stone.Somewhere, a church bell falters—midnight swallowing the chime.I stand in the doorway of yesterday,watching ghosts blur in the glass.And the city, still drunk on last year’s grief,wraps herself in the silence of snow.
The Liffey moves like an old hymn,slow, thick with the weight of winter.Mist hangs in the bones of the city,soft as breath on a lover’s throat.Grafton Street glows in the amber hush,gold light pooling in puddles of night.Shop windows blink like tired eyes,tinsel-framed and full of want.A girl in a red coat spins in the rain,arms open to the hush of December,while a busker sings of exile,his voice rough as salt on stone.Somewhere, a church bell falters—midnight swallowing the chime.I stand in the doorway of yesterday,watching ghosts blur in the glass.And the city, still drunk on last year’s grief,wraps herself in the silence of snow.
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By MARCELLA BOCCIADecember in Dublin (Marcella Boccia)
The Liffey moves like an old hymn,slow, thick with the weight of winter.Mist hangs in the bones of the city,soft as breath on a lover’s throat.Grafton Street glows in the amber hush,gold light pooling in puddles of night.Shop windows blink like tired eyes,tinsel-framed and full of want.A girl in a red coat spins in the rain,arms open to the hush of December,while a busker sings of exile,his voice rough as salt on stone.Somewhere, a church bell falters—midnight swallowing the chime.I stand in the doorway of yesterday,watching ghosts blur in the glass.And the city, still drunk on last year’s grief,wraps herself in the silence of snow.
The Liffey moves like an old hymn,slow, thick with the weight of winter.Mist hangs in the bones of the city,soft as breath on a lover’s throat.Grafton Street glows in the amber hush,gold light pooling in puddles of night.Shop windows blink like tired eyes,tinsel-framed and full of want.A girl in a red coat spins in the rain,arms open to the hush of December,while a busker sings of exile,his voice rough as salt on stone.Somewhere, a church bell falters—midnight swallowing the chime.I stand in the doorway of yesterday,watching ghosts blur in the glass.And the city, still drunk on last year’s grief,wraps herself in the silence of snow.