through shining air -
I shut my moleskine, put away my clever biro - once more, I was perched upon my seat in the RAF transport plane, wide eyed and quivering with joy and terror - I was watching its wings judder when we encountered turbulence - one of the cabin crew had reassured me - soon afterwards, we'd landed - for the first time I felt the warmth of a pagan sun upon my skin -
We found the stone house, opposite the church, in Norfolk Street - the house was called Dahlia - at the end of the street was a tiny shop, like a fragrant cave - you went inside through a beaded curtain, brushing away plump flies - you could buy black bread, which you daubed with thick dollops of tomato paste -
There was the rocky shore, where I learned to swim and became brown, darting through the warm sea -
Later, we tracked down Hibernia House, where we'd had a second floor flat - I'd lie down in the cool corridor, my body burning, staring up at the ceiling - I'd swallow my salt tablets at my mum's urgings - she might wrap a wet sheet around me -
At the time of our visit, cancer had just touched me with its dark fingers, although I hid the mark on my side -
Last week, at my mum and dad's, I found this photograph, in its little oval frame -
I'm standing with my brother, on the balcony of the flat - my shorts are held up by an s shaped belt clip - we've both got crew cuts - we're oblivious to the shapes clustered in the bright street - they'll form our future selves - how many more shapes, I wonder, are now gathering behind me, as I sit here, turning up the light?
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