The singing bells of Shandon start to ring the evening massAnd the river harmonizes with some sighing water-grassThe shopfronts hum a steady waltz and car lights blink in timeTo an endless pulse of music built from fraying, cobbled rhymeDancers leap down Plunkett’s Street and skip past the cafésBuskers keep the rhythm as they practise their pliésFitzgerald’s Park is swaying to a thudding, distant tuneAnd improvising students reel beneath an autumn moon.