A machine torn straight from the pages
of the War of the Worlds,
it has dug claws into the soil of old Dundrum
and hunkered down on its haunches.

St. George’s Bells peel its arrival.
Spider on spider on spider,
little feet disturb hairs
on the back of my hands,
and ivy sinks first roots
into concrete - the webs we weave,

the bridges new lovers build for each other,
rigging stretches to the sky
and wind plays the cables like a harp.
It is like a beached ship, you whispered.
Before it landed here on our small planet,
a sail of purest whitest energy
stretched from that thin curved mast,
I replied.

Those pillars hide the shaft of a glass elevator
and, deep in the caverns they have hollowed
beneath the streets of Dundrum,
small fat-eyed men with silver suits and laser guns
watch us as we make love on the tracks
of Dundrum Luas bridge-
stars pulsing above us,
cars pulsing below
and Mars hovering, unblinking,
an ever-watchful eye.