Matthew Brennan
The Creeping Thistle in Suburban Dublin
They called them Irish Travellers, native nomads
Moving place to place. The summer day
I came to town, they’d propped their tents
Within a park across from where I lodged.
The concierge had thrown a fit, ticked off
As if a football mob of muscled men
Had roamed her lawn dead drunk on pints.
The quiet campsite hid behind some yews.
My room looked down on the innkeeper’s garden,
Where back against the brick retaining wall
A patch of creeping thistle rooted, free
To bask their lilac heads in morning light.