We seek shelter from the sudden sun
within this city of concrete class,
everything here is concreted,
change is considered
but takes centuries to occur.
I have been asked for fax numbers,
offered cheque books and been told
that fibre is only forming and would dial-up not do?!
We seek shelter from the storms
here in this city that sites class and culture
above the chaos that is corrupting.
Everything here is cornered in concrete.
Shadows have been whitewashed
and the pigeons sprayed
in a shade of peace
the seers cannot swallow
I watch the streets be swept clean
of history, locals reopening in boroughs
they’ve been blighted to,
to Hell or to Connaught
we were once told in Ireland,
from Paris to the peripherique
is the new phase as designers dig up
the bones of the barely dead,
so our city can look chicer, sweeter, safer.
I seek the only thing time has taken.
The past gets further while the shadows get stronger.
We seek shelter
under palaces still being prized
for their no longer pristine polish.
A second star does not a paradise make.
All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly