summer and smiles come back to me shyly

I have a flat.

Commuting didn’t seem so bad at the time – it’s easy to trudge along and accept the present. Now I’m living on my own again, I realise I missed the freedom of organising my own time, the little responsibilities which, added up, make you an adult. I am enjoying doing the boring things: writing lists, washing up, unpacking my suitcase and assigning each item its own proper place.

Now I see I missed my morning cycle, propelling myself into the day instead of being pushed forward, half-asleep, on an early bus. I’m living in the east end for the first time, and my bike takes me through a park, in sight of the beach, then up a wide curving slope with the old city wall and the cathedral to my right. I cycle uphill into the wind, gears too high and seat too low, feeling the push in my thighs and enjoying the fleeting chance, once again, to exercise by accident.

Our living room is blue-green, and our poky little kitchen is painted bright yellow.

I visited family in Jersey.

I know the island as a childhood friend. We visit my grandmother’s house and it hasn’t changed since the photos in which I sit, baby-cheeked and serious, on the living room step. The photos come out, the medals from the wars. Stories slip gently through more practical conversations. In the prison camp in Shanghai my great grandfather ate maggots for protein. Matthew, could you help close the garage door? My great uncle, spurned, wrote my great aunt a poem: I am in love with a cold green stone. And perhaps my mother could lend a hand sorting out this paperwork?

I know the island well, but this time I saw it from two different vantage points. By bike we clattered and weaved to Corbiere, where blue tides recede and yield the lighthouse path to dry feet. At Anne Port we threw the bikes aside and floated face up under blinding sun. It rained two days later, but we rode on anyway.

Then my uncle, a pilot, showed us the island from above. The lido at Havre de Pas where we swim daily; Mont Orgueil Castle where Imo once lost a teddy bear; Pontac Slip where we let ourselves get sucked into the black ocean at midnight – these familiar sights were spread out on the map below, all small parts of one great picture.

Now I am back, and in St Andrews too I have bike and beach and sun. 

An exam looms and the holiday is done, but summer is not quite over yet. 

The blue sky peeks at me from behind cloud-blots, 

and I treasure fleeting frequent moments 

within which I feel 

like spinning 

again.