This Time Dublin

One of those downpours, it falls
hard and fast and is gone
before city gulls reach the south quays. No rainbow.
Wrong time of day. The smallest
of Calatrava’s bridges, a steel white winged bird
poised to take flight
over the Liffey.  And she is 

standing still, at the midway
point, her head bare and bowing forward. Searching
for a lost red scarf, she begins to let go
real tears, the way those embedded glass lights
have been smashed by vandals or too many cars rushing by.