Last week a big red-and-white striped tent appeared under the restless rookery in a patch beside the football pitch. The name of the circus glowed in bold yellow lights against the ancient trees and church spires. I could see the graveyard on the hill just beyond the big top's four peaks. On the football pitch, mothers and others chased a ball. It was already dusk, at eight-ish PM. I saw the moon for the first time in ages that night. The streetlamps came on, one by one, as I walked under them, thinking of how I hadn’t dreamt most of July and August.

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A heatwave, our second summer. The swifts reappear. Butterflies are everywhere, even in our bedroom, a pair of frantic wings and a tiny shadow flickering across bed and walls.

For the first time in months, we go to a beach, which is vast and underused. The dog dashes away to smell everything and rolls in a heap of tattered dark hide and small bones. Close to the waves, the sand is as smooth and shiny as glass and reflects the blue of the sky; husband and dog look like they're trotting on water, as they walk away from me toward a boundless horizon.

I’m always drawn to the beach on the third of September. I don’t know why. Later I think: it’s the anniversary of meeting the husband, and my dad’s death-anniversary, the anniversary of a beginning and of an ending, of love and grief.

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