By Daniella Clarke
In white linen and wallpaper cotton
We are off again
Traversing through the tall grass
Thin, unruly strands that whip against our calves
Making us feel like lice
Crawling through the scalp of the earth.
I am only thirteen
But your sticky honey smile
And cream paper skin make me
Forget forget forget.
In my mind, I am nineteen
Just like you
And I wear my hair long
mirroring your ringlets;
Your Gemini brother.
When we arrive at the water’s edge
The lake outstretches its silver-flecked limbs
Breathing a sigh.
Small waves thrashing their bodies
Against one another
Scales slipping against slippery scales
All reflected under the south-west sun.
I cannot look away
As you begin to gently pull at the lace string
That holds your blouse in place
As you untuck the silky fabric from your
Stiff lavender skirt
As you toss away your straw hat
Reveal your cornflower blue tunic
Looking like a sailor girl.
You are a vision in the May light
Tinted with a rose sheen
My eyes blurring out of focus
As you descend into the water
With apprehensive feet.
You shimmer as bright as the waves
Laughing your seashell laugh
Which is almost drowned out
By the piano sonata in my head.