Janet Reinhardt
Hide and Seek
In the bush behind the beach
the sharp scent of gums
The whispered crush of disturbed leaves
The screech of galahs
The man appears, grey hair
like her father’s. His hands hide
deep in the pockets
of his crumpled shorts
It’s the way he smiles
his too-bright eyes that brings
the dryness to her mouth.
Even before he tells her
He’s got something to show her
she’s already halfway up the tree
child’s breasts pressed hard
against the firm white safety
of the trunk. Her hair a long,
dark fruit. In the highest fork
she starts counting the leaves,
concentrates on their blue-green gloss
the curl of their tails. The thwack
of a ball, someone shouts Howzat?
She goes on counting.
Two hundred and twelve …
three hundred and twenty-three …
four hundred … She’s still child
enough to believe
in the magic of numbers
Previously published Cimarron Review