Saturday, August 11, 2007

I Had a Dream

Our Transport Minister's vision of a gridlock-free transport system may well come too latefor many of us...

Last night, as clouds pulled hazy shrouds
Across the Milky Way,
I dreamt I flew with wonder to
A bright but distant day.
I hit the ground and spun around
Beneath the rosy skies –
A sparkling world lay there, unfurled,
Before my startled eyes.

No traffic jams, just shiny trams,
All programmed by computer,
A nice, plush seat laid out to greet
Each laughing-eyed commuter.
And Dart trains, too, straight by me flew,
So fast I almost missed ‘em,
‘Twas win, win, win, with this great in-
-Tegrated transport system.

Trav’llers beamed and truly seemed
To be a bit more sparky.
“More time in bed,” an old man said,
“Means people aren’t so narky.
No workday blues in sodden queues,
There’s buses when you need ‘em.
And hence the buzz – it’s given us
A new-found sense of freedom.

I picked up some far-distant hum,
And was, at first, quite puzzled.
Beneath my feet, beneath the street,
I sensed it, faint and muzzled.
A far-off sound, deep underground,
Beneath the nitty-gritty.
The Metro? No! Now in full flow
Way underneath the city.

Across the land, great networks spanned
The country’s once-choked by-ways.
At massive cost, the land was crossed
By wide-laned superhighways.
No lengthy queues on travel news,
No roadworks of frustration,
Just transport bliss inspired by this
Improved communication.

No trucks break down in Mallow town,
The Jack Lynch Tunnel’s flowing.
The Dublin quays all move with ease,
Despite the fact it’s snowing.
With no delays on wintry days,
The A.A. Roadwatch ceases.
With naught to do, the traffic crew
Give up and go to pieces.

But here and there, I sensed despair
Among the opposition.
Fine Gael had gone quite pale
And knelt down in contrition.
For all along, they had been wrong,
And now they were quite sullen.
Where others quivered, he delivered –
The blesséd Martin Cullen.

His statues stand, austere and grand,
At every railway station,
And people pray throughout the day
In silent adoration.
The deaf and dumb (and daft) all come,
Petitioning for kindness,
Because his image, once in Kimmage,
Cured a man of blindness.

Then I awoke, but naught I spoke,
Enveloped in great sorrow,
Because I faced untimely haste
To get to work tomorrow.
Oh yes, we’re cursed, so deep immersed
In gridlock and frustration,
For it is clear, alas, that we’re
The static generation.

And thus I call on bold Michéal
To implement this vision,
To speed the plan as best he can
With consummate incision.
This scheme, one fears, will take ten years,
And only come in phases,
By which time, I’ll be too senile
Or fertilising daisies.

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