The singing bells of Shandon start to ring the evening mass
And the river harmonizes with some sighing water-grass
The shopfronts hum a steady waltz and car lights blink in time
To an endless pulse of music built from fraying, cobbled rhyme
Dancers leap down Plunkett’s Street and skip past the cafés
Buskers keep the rhythm as they practise their pliés
Fitzgerald’s Park is swaying to a thudding, distant tune
And improvising students reel beneath an autumn moon.