Last Call on a Friday

Cork Words Anthology 3, 2023.

Edited by
Patricia Looney

Available at
Cork City Library

A heron glides along Grand Parade on a rainy night in August. He’s on his way to the Lee to stand on a rock beside one of the levees under the bridge, while the tide is still low and the rushing water loud, to pick his feathers and seem all-knowing to the pub-goers leaning over the wall. He wishes he went to college. The otter went to college and moved away, and yet there remains a sign on the shaky bridge with his face on it, telling the hopeful tourists that they might catch a glimpse of him yet. Maybe the otter will move home someday and set up shop again, and he and the heron will have fish on Fridays. Fast Al’s, for the time being, will suffice. 

Bulbs flicker to life, illuminating wistful clouds of fine rain. Perhaps there will be a worthwhile screening this evening. The heron’s feathers feel slick now that they’ve been coated in Cork’s mist; he will pay his theatre a visit. Long, gangly legs begin to twitch and then the heron is taking off, spreading thin wings wide and skimming webbed feet across liquid flooring. His body hovers parallel to the surface of the water, rising up with each graceful beat of wings as he circles back on himself and skims the wall of the bridge. A Deliveroo biker on big, thick wheels. An accordion player thwarted under weather. Big cinema spotlights reflecting off dark, wet kitchen tiles. A red light, the rhythmic drumming of a blind man’s green man. Three Fools Coffee and the other box that doesn’t seem to serve a purpose to the humans. For the heron, it is his throne. 

The seagull arrives with a chip and uses his foot to break off a piece for the heron. One in the morning is too early to be eating through the popcorn; the show is only just beginning. Taxis are lining up at the rank outside the library. The heron contemplates the bagpiper’s choice of instrument considering the bridge’s occupant. Things quiet before the storm and all that can be heard is the fountain singing its rainy song, accompanied by a soft rise in the tide across the Parade. The pigeons will be sleeping now, tucked away in their little park by the council men, to sleep and nest eggs over sticks in the empty pond. A gentleman sets a table of fruit and vegetables on the wall; he’ll be taking those to the English Market in the morning, about two centuries ago.