O’Callaghan Strand
Arriving in cars, on foot, by bike,
All choosing the same destination,
Part of the city, yet so unalike,
Calling out in invitation.
.
Running, jogging, smiling, talking,
Clicks of heels, and clangs of keys,
Bread swinging, dogs walking,
A constant pulse, beneath the trees.
.
To the swans, most will go,
A sharing with strangers,
Conversations beginning to flow,
No sense of those usual dangers.
.
Holding for a moment,
Even those just passing through,
Needing no encouragement,
To stop and enjoy the view.
.
Sitting by the strand, that place of peace,
Enfolded within a noise that never sleeps,
Still resides a rest that does not cease,
An escape from the city it always keeps.
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