Steel capped icebergs' pierce the sky.
In artificial towers
Rapunzels refused to let down their hair,
Satisfied to watch the tired and hungry
Sheltered field of pleasant green
The susurrus of distant wind,
Protests at intrusion,
Faceless streets close in around, as corridors seem to stretch into infinity,
A burst of adrenaline and the heart seems to beat irregularly a small bird
Desperate to escape the cage. The flight of logic begins as images blur into
Urban concrete jungle
In the twilight hours
This is where the lost boys are.
That is the best description of Irish weather.