(After Stephen James Smith)
Dublin is a waking dream. Terminal 2 at dawn and no sleep and a fumbling mobile top-up in W.H. Smith.
Dublin is waiting.
Eleven English nights and a cheap Ryanair back across the Irish Sea.
Dublin is getting collected from the airport by a friend.
Dublin is tea, not coffee. Milk in first.
Dublin is endless conversation about politics and Brexit and elections and revolutions.
Dublin is being told “Welcome home” again.
Dublin is a lie.
Dublin is a lie and a truth both at the same time.
Dublin is the number 9 bus into town, was the 46A and the one-four-five. The DART and the LUAS.
Dublin is reading the paper and a pint in Neary’s. Friends and fancy cocktails in a pretend speakeasy. A lie and a truth at the same time.
Dublin was Johnson’s Court at Christmas. Wise words from writers. Frank and Conor. Theatre fest and the smell of hay.
Dublin is laundry on the line in the back garden. Butter and milk and eggs and ham from Tesco.
Dublin is Irish and English both at the same time.
Dublin is curry in Firhouse and Prosecco and chianti and limoncello and a mad sprint to the bus stop.
Dublin is knowing the spirit of 316 still lives in the countryside.
Dublin is a run in the sunshine and a run in the rain.
Dublin is playing tourist with Is at Dublin Castle and the Queen of Tarts.
Dublin is plain and unadorned and is nothing and everything all at once. Farwell pints in O’Donoghughe’s and the ghosts of Ronnie Drew and Phil Lynott.
Dublin was home, Dublin is home, Dublin will continue to be home. A faraway home, when I am not at home.