The masts in Poolbeg Yacht Club
Play a metallic symphony.
They sound like drunken tin cans.
The people frown and walk a-slant.
Some are carrying bikes.
One holds the rail of the bridge.
Storm Barney has come out to play.
We'll see his friends before year end,
My colleague wryly says.
Trees lean, unimpressed.
Flags demean themselves with flapping.
The leaves blow and wildly blow
As though they too have someplace to go,
But November leaves have no home.