After her fracas on the ferry we walked on tenterhooks.
Shuffled amongst locals – over newly laid tracks. 
Some of us steeped deep into the book of Kells.
Perched in O'Neil's, drank Guinness, ate victuals, 
gazing at Molly and musing; that ink never dries
in a poet’s home where a ballad holds its breath. 
Crossing the flat-back of O’Connell’s, we marvelled
at a Galleon glazing on the compass of movement.
Strode on to where freedom’s fragile web was fought
for at the GPO, as the city ached in its belfry.
Back at the port, we left with our history clinging
to our bones and friendship’s threads unravelling.