It is 2am. As the sonic bells of St.Patrick’s Cathedral writhe like brass butterflies among the ancient brickwork. Sepia envelops all formless shapes and unsung ballads howl from Crown Alley and his mind caught the wind cleaving in pink rivulets, invisible yet fierce like white fire dancing on the soft bed of rock from Temple Bar to College Green. Time weeped inertly..dully like geese necks arching like wild wire into a frozen pool. Taxis hovered like crowned chariots, lost honey.