Blue, the morning. Green, the lights.
Raucous the calls of Liffey gulls,
soft and dolorous the bells
Low, the doorframe. Silver the pushbutton
lock with its code C-X-2-8,
its basement entry, awkward opening.
Steep, the stairs, many the flights.
Hot the cardboard coffee cup.
Urban, the view of slated roofs
and redbrick pointing; café, pharmacy,
foreshortened passengers
rushing from the Dart.
Yellow, a fleck in your paisley shirt
you scrutinize in a daydream . . .
Concentrate.
Yes: famous the birth.
Famous the Oscar Wilde
who was born.
Here is the room where Oscar Wilde.
He fought the law and the
law won.
Here is the actual spot.
Short, the leap to Merrion Square.
Happy the formative years
Colette Bryce’s most recent collection is Selected Poems (Picador)
