We amble along the Royal Canal
talking of Henry David Thoreau
and going eastward, not westward
toward Dublin town stopping to
nibble on hawthorn seeds and
plump, moist blackberries lingering
on the vine, making us feel like
captains of a huckleberry party.
We pause at a spot where we
can see bright copper domes
and church tops silhouetted
in a hazy sun but are glad we
remain distant enough from the
citys din along the Royal Canal.
By Richard F. Fleck
This poem originally appeared in Words-Myth