I swapped my motorbike for a painting

I swapped my motorbike for a painting. Yeah, got the deal on
that one. Saw a painter coming. Suzukis can’t leave the island,
come with me. Art can. The plane rises in a learning curve.

Through the window, down, a seagull’s view, I seem to observe
myself on one last circuit, mosquito engine knocking and
pinking, wind blow-drying my fringe to a Tintin. Past the

breakwater, that accusatory finger, round to Longis, sea the
colour of Play-Doh, waves crashing the crags, ice-hockey jock
shoulders. That was Alderney. But now it’s in front of me

in lush, chaotic oils. Then, magically, animation. Braye
Beach is breathing. And down its depiction of Douglas Quaye,
rides the artist, who stops, dismounts, a new outlook, head

buzzing with sketches. I hold the frame, hugging, maybe a
bit weepy. This was a steal. An absolute mugging.