by buffy foster
Split-second scarlet, richer even
than blood in the water,
the pond holding the glare of the sun
where it can, plastered lilypads
protecting the pool, and red and yellow
rhododendron flowers splaying
onto the surface, squidgy little starlets.
The sun tries to reach through,
tries to burn holes in the droplets puddling
on the flat leaves
but no luck. Next to me,
you radiate the same hot red,
and I wonder what I’ve done wrong
this time. “What’s up?”
“Nowt.” As you answer, it sets,
the pond dyes pink, then returns
blue-green, the same colour
I’m remembering, blink
of an eye, as a kid, somewhere in Wales,
we watched a newt
waddle up and out of the blue-green water.
It sat for a moment, on the shallow,
but under its chin fiery red,
some sort of defense mechanism
I couldn’t fully work out, that red underbelly
reflected, eyeing us from the water.
Back when I didn’t know what it was, and
dad told me the name and we all watched
in awe as it riddled away.
Buffy Foster studied BA (Hons) English Literature with Creative Writing, followed by an MA in Literature. She is an avid writer of poetry and a big fan of Sylvia Plath. She currently lives in the North of England with eight pet rats.