Who knows what records you may break
Or what goals the world will set you,
But there’s no voyage you’ll undertake
With a purpose so clear and absolute
As this search in the December twilight
For the sparkle of lit trees in windows.
How many shall I count, walking tonight,
Wrapped up for the cold with my boys?
Breaking our record of two hundred and six
Leaves neither of you satisfied,
Knowing there must be one last cul-de-sac
Whose array has not yet been spied.
Cities won’t always have seasons like this:
Chestnuts like manna in the autumn grass,
Blackberries growing wild in the colleges,
And candles in windows in the wintry dark.
You will grow older, losing your innocence,
And, with luck, eventually gaining it back.
But may you never lose the sense of resolve
With which you both grip my hand
Beneath a skyline of stars foretelling frost,
And lead me around a penultimate bend
Onto a street alive with leaping sword-fish
And acrobats from the fantastical land
Which spills over from your imagination.
There, amid the constellations of Drumcondra,
You eventually reach the magical number
Which, by unspoken consent, allows us to turn,
Astronomers, explorers returning from afar
To glimpse the final lit window which is home.
December, 1996
