I had spent the day rereading Reinhold Niebuhr.
The skies, appropriately a deadly grey,
were curtaining Spring, who, like a troubadour
withholding song until his patrons pay,
was silent, and I, chilled, went on a tour
of friends and pubs and places one can play
a parlour game, or undergo confession,
or in some other way combat depression.
The fifteenth stop, if there had been that many
(it was I thought the last for me till dark),
brought me, detouring, leagues south of Kilkenny
and to the coast: rude boats, a little park
and a rugger pitch deserted as too fenny.
I thought I saw a dragon disembark
from the furthest boat, but it was nearly dusk
and hard to see, or care. All was subfusc.