Hearing rain on the salt-crusted statue base, I note the marble acid-etched, age-old look, lined by a bronzed plaque I wish had been copper green.
Each plaque only a link in a half circle of slippery-when-wet metal but well outlined in the sodium soft glare of the street.
I hear the rain in Connemara, hard on the damp heather beds, hitting the hiding faces of Jacob’s sheep sleeping to the lee side of the wind to protect a huddled calf.