Wintersong

As I laid awake at night,

I could feel how Dublin fell asleep.

It was my first winter in the capital of the Emerald Island,

but not my first winter in the Emerald Island itself.

And yet, these two could not have been more different.

Dublin is harsh,

Dublin is cold, and volatile, and grey.

Dublin is everything Joyce said it would be.

In some ways, you need to be aware of the spirit of this city,

you have to let the rain pour over you.

Only afterwards you will get to see Dublin’s true colours.

Because then you open your eyes one morning, and the sky is crying thick spongy pearls instead of water.

I promise the arrival of the Irish winter makes you forget the taste of rainwater.

I promise that, if you are lucky enough to find yourself in Dublin during this time of the year, you will chase after every snowflake you see.

Winter turns the grey in this fair city into white;

the sky, the water, the air and the roofs of the buildings.

Even when the snow disappears with the first timid breath of spring, the sense of whiteness stays.

And I believe Dublin turns white as an invitation for spring to come.

Dublin, I say to myself, must know how difficult and unrewarding it is to colour on dirty paper.

Dublin most certainly knows that the green shine of emeralds has to be blatant and unmistakable.