Heuston Station

The grey, squatting, mausoleum

welcomes multiple penetrations,
of trains that come and go,

deep into this Victorian slut.

In summer she tarts her front,

in wintertime, bling for halls.

High up in her cantilever supports,

the pigeons shit, and play forest games,

above the scurrying hair-balls, while below, 
she spreads her diesel skirts unloved, through ground
and air. Always, she lifts your heart,

for just one moment of promise,

and then, oh sad, sad, tart of yore,

from your car parks and grimy halls

they hurry; no one dallies, to explore.

©Copyright Niall OConnor

Image borrowed from Web