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
