Flashback—turning point

To the softness rising out of you,
that plume of grey

ghosting up from the concrete,
the drill,

not hit centre yet.

A chalk outline of a hopscotch,
one foot on no, the other

a younger version of you
dancing in the rain,

stick to every gutter, jamming
every small thing you can find

& then running away.

And first rain, outside, jump
of that frog, how we followed,

tadpoles we found at the back
of the garden, the goldfish

always dying.

Painted you once,
tried to face you, couldn’t.

So down the road she goes,
behind her: a stream of watercolour.

Your face: smeared as children do.
Healed more than a decade ago,

but still feel the film of new skin,
the rust of that nail, count

nine stitches.

The sun did not laugh that year,
hasn’t smiled my way since.

By S.A. Khanum

Biography:

S.A. Khanum is a writer from the UK.