On a backstreet in Salamanca I eat my ratatouille and egg and the little girl walking with her father stops and points in the direction of the square with the
cathedral and the Anaya Palace. I look, see nothing that would interest a child. Her father is at her level, scanning the horizon, his hands making a telescope
to see her slice of view. He gives up, tells her they’re off. She bobs along in her floaty dress, a tiny tulip. I look again, remember my nights standing
on the ledge at the edge of town, the universe thrown before me, the constellation that was maybe Cygnus but didn’t seem right. I know the stars, usually have no
trouble seeing a queen or whale or flying horse. But for all my squinting towards the square I just couldn’t see what that little tulip girl saw that was so magical.
Elizabeth Gibson was announced as a New North Poet at the 2017 Northern Writers’ Awards. Her writing has appeared in The Compass, Cake, Antiphon, Creative Review, The Poetry Shed and Ink, Sweat & Tears. She edits Foxglove Journal and the Word Life section of Now Then Manchester. She tweets at @Grizonne and blogs at http://elizabethgibsonwriter.blogspot.co.uk.