November Evening in Dublin

Originally posted on Writing from poetry with a small p.:
? Dry leaves of sycamores have Fallen to the navvies’ excavations. Evening, cold, is rolled across The city’s winter-glow gloom. Unlit Christmas, manhandled Into place, hangs sullenly, waiting For the sparked, switch-flick That turns it on to life. Cyclists, in their righteous Superiority, glance over fearful Shoulders at dark behemoth buses That push and press… Continue reading November Evening in Dublin