porthcawl By Anna Bailey

The Rising Phoenix Review

February 12

porthcawl

in the rockpool was a strange glimmer
of a seaweed-child:
a girl
whose clammy feet were almost
selkie-slick; had picked their way across
the treacherous causeway to glean
shallow divinations.

it showed naught but the present,
but brighter than the reflection in her nana's
polished silver,
somehow more
delicate than bone-china too.
those cupboards were full of ghosts -
portraits of people no longer themselves -
and it made her shiver.

out on the sand, a tide's skip away,
lay the funfair in joyful disrepair.
in her mind she coloured the faded banners,
filled the signs cracking at the edges
until it was shining again. the newness of it all
a decadence;
each time just like the very first.

once, she had tripped up the moving staircase
and jagged a new dent
into her pretty bones. for twenty minutes
the blood on her shin was bright and curious -
but she soon forgot when a fat gold coin
was pressed in her palm,
the thrill of ice cream,
Sidoli's hundred flavours to savour
in the cold sea air.
the scar long since turned
to salt in the wind.

then later, when the afternoon had turned
like yellowing pages in a book:
she and her brother each
to ride a pony all the way down the beach.
rough, warm hair twisted beneath her knuckles -
its breath was fuggy and sweet.
they rode
to lap the water's edge,
its gentle plodding like the echo
of a creature who could do no harm.

By Anna Bailey

Biography:

Anna is a third year undergraduate of English and Hispanic Studies at the University of Warwick - but she is currently on a year abroad working with sloths in Costa Rica. Her passion for languages stems from their ability to connect and empower communities, reaching to the core of our love for nature and this precious planet. Working in conservation here has opened her eyes to a whole other world of beauty, and for that privilege she is incredibly grateful. She wishes she had been born bilingual.