I remember
the rocks hot under
my skin, black sun-glistened
flecks in sugar-almond stone,
rush of foam-tinged
sparkling water, the pull back
of waves fizzing sand.

Lying in the cold mirror
of the sea, blue above
and blue below, floating
for hours as though
I might dissolve
on the brim
of it all.

My grandma’s garden,
when I was ten,
twack of tennis balls
against red brick,
how she kept them
on the top of two
carved wooden
candle sticks, the way
she watched
through the kitchen
window as I threw
them against the wall.

The wicker laundry
basket I hid in
when I was three though
we weren’t playing
hide and seek, how
the light-speckled darkness
enveloped me.

The bificated
cherry tree I sat in
every break time
at primary school,
smooth polished wood
scattered with scars,
what I’d whisper
when no one
was looking, far away
from the bullies.

The centre
of a giant rose, where
I’d sleep encircled
by glowing petals.
Times I’d shrink down
to the size of a bee
so I could hide for a while
in a bunch of flowers.

The winged horse
that flew me into the sky
every night when
I was five, how
I’d sink into
the silk of his white
feathered wings
as if he were an angel
come to save me.

Lucy Whitehead writes haiku and poetry. Her haiku have been published widely in various international journals and anthologies, and her poetry has appeared in Barren Magazine, Mookychick Magazine, and Twist in Time Literary Magazine. Her Twitter handle is @blueirispoetry.

Banner: Feature Image by Robynne Limoges @LimogesRobynne