I cycle home with the wind in my hair, it blows the clinging tendrils of work away for another day.

The sun on my face warms my spirit, heats my heart as the rise of each canal bridge make my leg muscles burn, and with that my happiness also rises. At the top I turn my head left and right and gaze at the scene before me.

Water, the great tunnel expanse ripples to the side of my bike's turning wheels, it's grey and green, it's lain there for centuries, but it's also my water for now. It has invaded my heart.
Over the other side of the bump I make my way downwards into a cross-section of paved streets so pretty you wouldn't find them anywhere else except on a postcard. A fiddler plays a dirge, my ears are assaulted with a tune so sweet I can taste the Ireland honey in my mouth. It also tastes like some long-forgotten home, strangely.

This water-filled place is mine for now. A place where in a window box overlooking another canal I can sit and write.

And I wonder.

I wait, above all I wait and while I wait I live.

Amsterdam you are glorious in the summer, you are happy and alive. Full of the light of life.

~But still I know that around the next few month's corner winter lurks. And again, I wonder what that season will bring.

But I will wait to see.