CYCLING TO DUBLIN Pulling the dead sun's weight through County Meath, We cycled through the knotted glass of afternoon, Aware of the bright fog in the narrow slot of breath, And the cycles' rhyming, coughing croon. "O hurry to Dublin, to Dublin's fair city, Where colleens, fair colleens are ever so pretty, O linger no longer in lumbering languour, Gallop the miles, the straight-backed miles without number." We were the Northmen, hard with hoarded words on tongue, Diven down by home disgust to the broad lands and rich talk, To the country of poets and pubs and cow-dung Spouting and sprouting from every stalk... "O hurry to Dublin, to Dublin's fair city, Where colleens, fair colleens are ever so pretty, O linger no longer in lumbering languor, Gallop the miles, the straight-backed miles without number." -- Robert Greacen (born 1920)