Blinking
twice I hold my breath.
Crossing
this street by Luas an hour before, an excited bright
eyed boy held his father’s hand and shyly smiled at strangers, anxious busy
shoppers on their weekly pilgrimage thronged the carriage while I daydreamed as
Johnny Cash crooned in my ear …..I hurt
myself today to see if I still feel.
I breath out and press against the cold granite wall of
Wynne’s hotel as a lump of similar rock flies by my eye.
The battle
of the angry protester vs the riot police - I know how this goes, I’ve watched
Sky News.
Except you can’t tell protesters from non-protesters, as they mill among
the gaping tourists and bystanders. Some wear scarves over their faces, most are
young men and there is no clear leader, just chaos.
One line of
riot police stand holding their black shields to deflect the glass bottles and
paving pieces – ready made ammunition courtesy of Dublin’s drinkers and
planners. Behind, unprotected in soft topped caps stand rows
of Gardai – their luminous jackets making them
perfect targets.
Shops are smashed
open and the crowd cheers as t-shirts and runners are flung in the air like
hats on graduation day.
The
protesters surge across O’Connell bridge but gardai block
the stragglers from crossing - the older protesters, the injured, the gaping
tourists, the scared shoppers and the curious locals.
Glass and
rubble cover the smouldering street and it feels like the calm after the storm.
But it is only the eye of the hurricane.