I remember
when chased butterflies
proudly flew their colours
and grass-stained knees
were medals of honour.

With Mother's lipstick on my face
smeared like war paint
meant for a warrior,
not for the war
that ageing would become.

The weight of survival
sits heavy with me now,
where feathers of ignorance
once floated weightless in the air
like innocent childhood fun.

I didn't know back then
that shadows belonged
when moving with the sun,
or that time was anything
but an endless summer.

Tell me, when did puddles
become mirrors,
instead of being
wellyboot splashed
into imaginary worlds?

©️Lizzie Bevis