Dat’s Capital

Washerwomen

I left work today in the sunshine of a Dublin Spring afternoon.  Down along the banks of the river the washerwomen were rinsing their clothes in the pure, clean flow of Annalivia Plurabella.  Their damp shifts clung to their thighs and breasts and their hair drifted seductively on the balmy breeze.

Up above, on the bridge, the local lads took in the scenery, wolf-whistling and cat-calling at the women below.  The washerwomen gave as good as they got and the banter flew backwards and forwards like a gay tarantella.

From the North Quays you could hear the skreel of the Uileann pipes, the fiddle, the flute and the beat of the Bodhrán as a band warmed up for the evening session.  Workers poured into the streets, heading for an early pint to celebrate another day down.

In counterpoint the Angelus bells tolled from the heights of Christchurch to remind us that it is still Lent.

All the colour, the noise, the sweet barley malt and earthy hop scents from the Guinness brewery combining for a heady spring afternoon in Ireland’s capital.  Where else in the world would you want to be?  I think Lorca was in Dublin on such a day when he wrote Seranata.

Serenata :  Federico García Lorca

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Por las orillas del río

se está la noche mojando

y en los pechos de Lolita

se mueren de amor los ramos.

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Se mueren de amor los ramos.

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La noche canta desnuda

sobre los puentes de marzo.

Lolita lava su cuerpo

con agua salobre y nardos.

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Se mueren de amor los ramos.

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La noche de anís y plata

relumbra por los tejados.

Plata de arroyos y espejos.

Anís de tus muslos blancos.

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Se mueren de amor los ramos.