I’ve been a little out of love with Dublin recently. The weather’s been grim: grey skies and endless rain, and I’ve been sloshing about in the sodden knowledge that tomorrow will bring more of the same. Except tomorrow surprised me, at least when it was yesterday, and I woke to sunshine and the sudden joy of a blue sky.
I work near the port and parked my car in its usual spot. I was early enough to dawdle – another miracle – and stood watching the Liffey, so calm it looked almost motionless. A silver haze skimmed its surface, stippling the hulls of sailing boats nodding in the marina.
(The port end of a river is the business end. When did it become so beautiful?)
Starlings on overhead wires chirped noisily. A handful of geese flew in from the park; took a turn on the mirrored water. It all seemed civilised, somehow, a momentary truce between man and nature.
Across the river, a yellow crane stood like a giant Meccano set. A line of trucks waited to board the ferry: their corrugated containers bright and cheerful. The day seemed full of potential; full of promise.
The feeling wouldn’t last. I knew that, even as I wallowed in it. Still, something profound seemed possible: some insight hovered like the haze over the water.
I took a breath and turned away.