It's amazing how in one's final hours in a country - and even if that departure may be attributed to a season and that even if necessity may constitute for itself a thorough packing -... yes, it's amazing how the quivering heart may suddenly crave the oddest of commodities, so trivial by comparison and yet immediate by the illumination of a heartfelt parting.

A lipstick, mascara, stationery and a Polo shirt all demand a pick-me-up for my hand luggage.

I'm in town for last minute errands. As usual, I have not packed. And I sigh at the kind of clutter

I had been in the habit of accomodating that was intolerant to my mother even when I was just 4. Or maybe, 3.

I left my some of my books with GB - my affectionate apey friend who sometimes comments.

But now Des another good friend and editor of my poems, is left with so much more. Even my jigsaw puzzle which I haven't yet opened.

I shall soon be back and there really is no need to take all that much...because all the Christmassy bits will still be here when I return and they unlike me, are not going anywhere...or so, I console myself.

I also forgot to mention that Dublin's streets were officially lighted up for Christmas 2 days ago and a gorgeous tree stands on O'Connell Street.

This evening, there is Anne Enright and also an open mic poetry reading in town, organised by Seven Towers Publications. My name has already been given so I shall be reading some poems. Not poems but lyrical prose which has become fashionable and which I am more at home writing. My poetry has always leaned towards the narrative. At the moment, I haven't yet decided what to read.

Say...something like this which I wrote awhile ago in London.

I SEE YOUR FACE...

painted by sunsets and shadowed by ghosts in the mindset. I hang your silhouette, an illumination of a lantern near the bleed of a cut in my heart. I touch you; the skin on my finger burrowed in the bliss of your kiss. I wait on tiptoe, reluctant for this loving moment missed. I see at once if something is wrong…I ask you about a scar from a mark that stayed too long…or perhaps of how your face beautiful in the morning light…would trace a blight that settles tenderly on the tip of a lip. You say it’s nothing…why am I so moved by a change in something of an expression…in anticipation of a haphazard arrangement so annoyed if I see your sideburns trimmed in a way to turn a destiny true, in a way that simply does not suit the majestic you. Perhaps it’s because I want your face chiselled awhile from its furrowed brows to a handsome smile…sculptured in my memory where youth holds on to its shaky, mirrored fantasy. -suzan abrams