Lights of Buratty

 This one has been left offline for a long time after being a contest poem:

 The Lights of Bunratty 

I remember the lights of Bunratty
on winter evenings, home from Limerick town,
or winter mornings heading in,
when darkness lies heavy and hope comes down.
Those lights shine brave against the cold,
small beacons steady, bright and bold.

In pitch-black dark they stream in colour,
past quiet roads and waiting bays,
where buses shelter, engines still,
and magic gathers in small ways.
Cushions, tinsel, warmth and cheer
build a wonderland that lives right here—
the heart of the village, steady and kind,
the heart of Ireland, softly signed.

Stand waiting there in bitter air,
the lights will hold you, calm your fears.
Christmas thoughts come drifting in,
to warm the coldest winter years.
You think of light, of home, of rest,
until the finest light appears at last—
the great bus rising through the night,
a moving promise, burning bright.

This winter Bunratty stands alone,
no footfall sound, no voices near.
So far from summers thick with crowds,
the world feels emptied, thin and clear.
It seems there’s no one left on earth—
just you, just me, the waiting light,
and down the road, through silent dark,
the bus approaching, slow and right.