Swim Often

Swim often, the sea absorbs: this is my advice to visitors on tiny islands in the Atlantic who are feeling claustrophobic and it’s true, the water cradles me, I could die with my head in her lap dreaming of the time when I swim out beyond the buoys where it gets choppy and the waves lick my lips like an over-excited Irish wolfhound and I look back at the shore and realise the peninsula I was aiming for is further than the jagged cliff studded with gorse and blackberry bushes so I’ll have to doggy paddle home but it never crosses my mind that I won’t make it even as the tide turns; I know I can swim that far—it’ll just be harder— yes, that’s how I thought it would be once I went under the knife and they stitched me up with a needle curved like a crescent moon, I thought I’ve come this far and waking up to the sound of your voice was as certain as the proliferation of Spanish bluebells that screwdriver their way through the mossy lawn when another April comes around; these are the thoughts that surface, in the morning in the shower, as my brain whirrs.

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