An auld Dublin frosty day.
The wind encourages a nagging groan, it intrusively caresses dwellers crossing the ***** auld Liffey, as the Ha'penny Bridge watches its city's life pass by.
There sits the Ha'penny Princess, briefly throned, tucked warmly under the Ha'penny arch.
She sits hoping to bait guilty privilege scurrying by, as she debates the warmth cost of briefly leaving her throne. She knows the cold will keep their hands at bay.
She sees those fearful, shuffling feet, knowing who won't resist her pounce.
She observes those squeezing out a yawn, knowing she won't squeeze a penny.
She pounces and traps fearful dwellers where she sees guilt has grown.
City dwellers pity, bequeathing ha'penny coins. Where they pass, their judgment weaves a spell, imagining a homeless girl’s myth that torments her scarred heart.
With her mask she nods a smile, holding her weariness inside, hiding behind those ha’penny coins.
She is content to be punished. She cares not; hell is hiding behind those ha’penny coins, and she plays her part, gracefully wearing their grime.
At the day's end chime, she seeks a chivalrous knight, an honest, honourable soul not bequeathing ha'penny coins.
She seeks to release herself out of history, out of hell.
Give her a quixotic crusade.
Not ha'penny coins.

By Ned Dillon