Perpetual budgets; our spirits are frightened,
Holes in the finances, tension is heightened
By feeling we're buying a pig in a poke.
But there's one thing untouchable: the treasure called hope.
Hope is commitment, courageous and tireless.
Hope is a song you might hear on the wireless.
Hope's an old buddy who says: "Good to see ya!"
It's Count John McCormack singing Ave Maria.
Hope is a currency opens all doors.
It can't be downgraded by Standard and Poor's.
It's Colm Gooch Cooper; it's Binchy and Heaney.
It's Sean Og O hAilpin. It's the Pogues. It's Puccini.
It's Robbie Keane. It's Colm Toibin.
It's walking through the frost in Stephen's Green.
The Who, U2, The Quo, The Queen,
Kiddies dressing up for Halloween.
Hope is a fisherman waiting on a bite;
Hope kicks a ball in the park every night,
Two jumpers for goalposts, no crowd in the stand,
But hope knows it's destined for Wembley in the end.
Fate has a foot that can kick us where it hurts,
When we're waterlogged with worries and we're losing our shirts,
But hope makes a dash from the halfway line
And it smashes in the winner -- in extra time.
Hope is a home, it's a lesson you learn.
Hope belts out a ballad like brave Mary Byrne
Defying all the losers who never even tried.
Hope is a bachelor. Hope is a bride.
Hope is the Sugarloaf. Hope is the sea.
It's the voice of Van Morrison, soaring and free.
It's the silence of The Burren, it's the hills around Tara.
It's the homes of Donegal and it's the lakes of Connemara.
Hope is a dancehall, hope is a flirt,
Hope is going on when your feelings got hurt.
Hope is a mother who just had a baby.
The cynic says 'no'. Hope says 'maybe'.
It's Bray's Katie Taylor and she weaving and ducking
And it's Crystal Swing from Cork (if you're into Hucklebucking).
Hope is a homecoming, hope is a groove,
Hope is a mystery. Hope's a smart move.
Advent is coming. The season of a light
That some say shone on the Bethlehem night,
And maybe it's a fable, but believing it is free;
Hope says look at the stars, never know what you'll see.
Hope's an old soldier and hope is a birth,
It's 33 miners raised up from the earth.
Hope is a sentence in Anne Frank's journal.
Hope is the winter; it springs eternal.
It's Imelda May's blues, it's a wild Irish rose,
It's the feeling you get when the north wind blows
On a winter's night and you're safe inside.
It's living with dignity, passion and pride.
Hope knows the stories of heroes and greats.
We're the people of Larkin and Davitt and Yeats,
Better than a Taoiseach who causes distress
As he simpers in a cupboard called the tabloid press.
We are more than a balance sheet, a plus or a minus.
Don't give the mediocrities permission to define us.
Gloom is a tomb
But desire is a door.
Anyone can open it.
That's what it's for.
Defeatists try to lock it, they're afraid we'd be free.
But we'll slip right through; hope is a key.
Hope is an armour; hope's an escape,
Hope is a holiday anyone can take.
So powerful it should come with a Government Warning.
Hope could be the clothes
In the morning.
'The Drivetime Diaries', a CD of Joseph O'Connor's RTE radio columns, has
just been released. He will give a week of readings
with music from Philip King of Scullion in 'Whole World Round' at the Peacock Theatre, Dublin, November 15-20. Now booking at www.abbeytheatre.ie