Matthew Paul

Home of the Freelance Editor

The midsummer morning you move is the hottest of the year, fully ten degrees warmer than the day before.

As was the case in the house you've left, every space demands your imprint. Intuitively, you fill the rooms as per the norms of western living, but skewed by your sparkling twists.

The wind – a caramel, conversational breeze – now and then strolls into the oak-floored room you've designated for dining and straight up the two flights of stairs, like a tomboy loping up a tree.

Once the furniture’s installed, you unpack the bubble-wrapped pictures and mirrors and try them out on different whitewashed walls; and when at last you face your tired reflection, you discern in your radial smile-lines some cheery semblance of mid-life equilibrium.

a blackbird bathes
in the yellow garden
floods of sunshine