A poem by Peter Sirr on hearing of the plan to cut down the trees of O'Connell Street.
May the train snag on ghost roots and come out
late, blackened and shaking into the light;
may the passengers find leaves in their pockets,
buds in their hair; may their briefcases be full of earth
and their documents drowned; may their laptops sicken;
may the trees of planners crash in their gardens
in distant suburbs, their hedges fail; may sea spill on them;
may their dreams be heavy with the weight of fifty trees
and may this street never forgive them but stay always
a haunt of dippers, a haven of hamburgers, may it sell
junk and bad music, may revellers riot in the plaza;
may its air rot and its statues resign; may the Pillar return
and sad Anna Livia in her bath, may it be
continually disappointing; may horses roam in it
and prams from the banished markets; may it smell of fish;
may the movie titles stick and the tape break in the sweetshop clock
and the woman who dances in the street to her own tune
be joined by a legion more, dancing like trees, and these
magnificent plane trees that have stood so long and injured no-one
may they refuse to go away, may they float down from the sky
and erupt from the pavement, may they hide like the promised trains
and then pursue us, one every five minutes for all time.