Monday 4 October 2010

Isle of Wight: swimming memories




Black sand in between bony toes. A kestrel circling the bay. My own nakedness against the wave. How it slapped my shoulder hard. A boy with a toy gun, another with a stone. Him reading on the shore. Crying quietly in the back of the car, to a folk tune I’d usually skip over. Chairlifts – how we flew across treetops, descending the cliff.
     A rock: blood on my thigh, purple dashes on both palms. Not caring how I looked in a bikini. Surf like gnashing teeth. Doggy paddling over rocks. Staring down at seaweed, salt stinging my left eye. Forgetting my age. Shadows cast from a stone, how it blocked the sun. The darkness inside the cave gobbling me up. Taking terrible photographs. A Fab ice lolly. Salt on my lips all day.
      Imagining a person sea-swimming until their breath ran out, and wondering if, one day, that person might be me. Light blinding me, my from-the-sales Gap sunglasses too loose. A tall cross dedicated to a poet. Cuts and ear infections. Gashes. Wounds. Hitchhiking to Newport. Clotted cream scones and Assam. A blown out tyre. Darkness. Headlights. Cocteau Twins on my headphones. 
    

    




Top photo: courtesy Olivia Laing

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