My breath fogging in front of me,
Amidst the crisp bright light
Of a frigid November morning
I find myself suddenly transfixed
By an ethereal apparition
Stemming from an unremarkable beer garden
From the door, the scent of spilled Carling Beer
Mingles with the body odour
Of a thousand cavorting chimpanzees
Dehumanised by low lighting
And yet all the more joyous for it.
Those who were passed out in bathroom stalls
Are now managers of suburban supermarkets
And the two in skirmishing in the corner
Are both married and working in finance.
The pedestrians walking past, digging their necks into
Their woollen overcoats
In some mockery of an elongated tortoise,
Seem oblivious in their entirety
To the pulsating beat drilling through my chest
From an echo of a young Cobain’s guitar
Or the throbbing thump of dance tracks
Spreading a soliloquy of scathing sound
Through the half empty, silent street.
What is now just another gentrified and genteel gastropub
was the home of countless companions
lost in time, and timid club goers
Making tentative eye contact with a bobbing head amidst
The raging current of riotous ravers
In the hopes of finding a kindred spirit
Within a sea of noise
How many magpies, mated for life
Stroll hand in hand
Past this derelict building in which they met?
How many more never spoke again?
Sir Henry’s was demolished before my birth.
A heap of rubble from an era gone by.
Yet it fascinates me still.
Has its dance floor truly cleared?
Or has it merely emigrated into
The eternal, rose tinted realm
Of the most precious memories?
Amidst the crisp bright light
Of a frigid November morning
I find myself suddenly transfixed
By an ethereal apparition
Stemming from an unremarkable beer garden
From the door, the scent of spilled Carling Beer
Mingles with the body odour
Of a thousand cavorting chimpanzees
Dehumanised by low lighting
And yet all the more joyous for it.
Those who were passed out in bathroom stalls
Are now managers of suburban supermarkets
And the two in skirmishing in the corner
Are both married and working in finance.
The pedestrians walking past, digging their necks into
Their woollen overcoats
In some mockery of an elongated tortoise,
Seem oblivious in their entirety
To the pulsating beat drilling through my chest
From an echo of a young Cobain’s guitar
Or the throbbing thump of dance tracks
Spreading a soliloquy of scathing sound
Through the half empty, silent street.
What is now just another gentrified and genteel gastropub
was the home of countless companions
lost in time, and timid club goers
Making tentative eye contact with a bobbing head amidst
The raging current of riotous ravers
In the hopes of finding a kindred spirit
Within a sea of noise
How many magpies, mated for life
Stroll hand in hand
Past this derelict building in which they met?
How many more never spoke again?
Sir Henry’s was demolished before my birth.
A heap of rubble from an era gone by.
Yet it fascinates me still.
Has its dance floor truly cleared?
Or has it merely emigrated into
The eternal, rose tinted realm
Of the most precious memories?
![](https://www.irishtimes.com/resizer/v2/3RA3ZKLNIJAQZHWK537QGGQA7Q.jpg?auth=fdeb854437066990ccec952071b4e3c819813909a024bed3d6a2e80e004371f2&width=800&height=1066)
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