Dublin Saunter

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