endymion

Strolling through Stephen's Green.
The gentle light of evening is playing over the shrubs and greenery, lakes and flowers, of Dublin's most famous city centre parkland.
The ghost of Vincent Van Gogh is with me.
"The artist cannot stand at the poles and the equator," he murmurs. "You must choose a line, Heelers. For me it was colour."
I favour him with a queer look.
"For me it will be speaking the truth about the Muslim threat," I muse.
"The Muslim threat? What's that?" demands Van Gogh.
"Ask your grandson," I answer softly.