Down by the canal

All the women are wearing white runners under their pinstripe suits. They'll be click-clipping about later, picking their way daintily across marble and hardwood boardrooms, a few inches further from the ground, but for now they pass by with sneakered softness.

I'm sitting on a low wall by Rathmines church, in a fine early-morning rain. I stayed with a friend last night, a last-minute favour that was repayed this morning by a seven o'clock wake-up call. I hated him intensely for it when I was warm under several layers of duvets, but the cold air has cleared my head and I am almost thankful now.

He asked if we could stop for a moment, on the walk into work, to step into the church. I shrugged - sure - and took a seat on the wall to watch the working world pass by. I don't have anywhere to go this morning, and it feels wonderful to be on the outside, a little hungover, a little thirsty, but happy.

My friend joins my again after a few minutes, and we saunter down to the end of the road where it meets the canal. We take a pathway along by the water, fringed with blonde reeds and tall grasses.

This is your walk every morning? I ask

He nods. It helps me collect my thoughts, he says.

We continue on in silence for several hundred paces, in no hurry. A black water hen breaks out from the bank, head bobbing back and forth, striking out into the centre of the canal. I know that underneath there are little feet paddling, but the water is filled with morning sky, so it looks as though, from where we are, that it's moving by sheer force of will. That by just wishing it to be so it happens.

I close my eyes and make a wish.