Near Lamb Doyle's

In the lap of the Dublin mountains, at that place
where the road branches off to the right
downhill past a gallery of deer silhouettes
caught in yellow diamond road-signs,
I wait and watch for an aurora (the sun
has belched again) and though there is no sign
of that celestial ripple, stay to see
my night city gradually wake, a compost
of earthlight, glistening, tarry, simmering
in the cool air, fumy, turning over
as Venus fattens and the citric orange sheen
intensifies then dulls in the blue solvent
till there is nothing to do but slam
the doors of my carapace and drive off
down to where life will close over me again
although a skim of what I've seen up there
on satellite patrol still clings, crackling, wild
invisible deer springing off across the sky.