Is there ever enough time to be home?, by pd lyons


Re Joyce 2

So tea almost done. Sun has come to mid-day.  Grey the rain or snow of this evening prepares itself. He’s thinking about his once walking Eccles Street, Dublin on his own.  Now here so far away in so many ways he is able to read Ulysses because like Joyce , he too knew Dublin in the minute little ways of endless walking, sometimes to work, sometimes look for work, sometimes for the pure joy of nowhere to go-  a smoke along the Liffey, a lunch of the best Irish stew in Ireland, a mad rummage among the old books and even though centuries separate their Dublin’s neither would not at all recognize the other’s.

Upstairs in the land of opportunity  the New England traffic make its way.  Still several feet of snow banked around the green. Tea almost gone. Another yoga stretch…

The times he’d gladly walk the hills for miles just to get to the village pub roll a smoke while Ita  pours a proper pint and maybe a wee Jameson for warmth to ease the wait.

Is there ever enough time to be home?

 

collage by pdl

collage by pdl

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