eucalypt tree branches overhead


Head is clamped in a vice.

Immobilising pain, immobilising

tongue and hand

I am unreconciled between who I wish I was

and who I am.

Longing for something (else) sacred

when I can run my hand through soft grass,

listen to the water going places and

be embraced by the over arching branches.

I feel like I have carried troubled violence

into a peacful place – the unrest within

I want to curl up here on the bank

a rest awhile – wake to the world being different

or myself.

What does it mean to be made in the

image of God?

Talitha Fraser