December Lights in Pearse Street)

Invite me again, John, to stand in the doorway
to see the robin eat porridge oats
from your ungloved hand or, failing that,
let’s visit the young oak wood where we’ll greet
Dead Man’s Fingers and Candle Snuff
and you’ll pronounce stigmella splendidissimella
with some delight as we inspect a bramble leaf
to chart the little fellow’s progress.
 
‘Róisin should be here shortly,’ you’ll oblige,
and she’ll arrive with news from town
of trolley gridlock, the aisles jam-packed.
We’ll feast then on such conversation as befits
the season, sipping, for old time’s sake,
an obligatory port. Christiaan will join in,
singing along to music he’s overheard
as daylight, our perfect host, tops up the glass.