Old lazy lizardslither
you come swiftly softly down,
concomitantly coiling
on your way to Dublin Town.
Here be a bridge, be water,
be people walking, talking
in a rapid half-sung dialect,
warbling inta mobile phones.
Half-heard tones of sub-aqueous
subterranean splendour, raise
the heads of sleeping river gods,
Lugh the Lord of Light, hidden spirits
within ancient aching stones.
(picture: Jack Yeats, "The Liffey Swim")
