Fermenting

My bare feet cold on the driveway

staring into silence

as clouds, like thoughts scud overhead

obscuring the light of the cosmos.

I am not waving,

I am cascading, salt tears

through rapids, down river

to the mouth of the ocean.

Messages of desperation from fathers in Gaza.

I have woken again with images

of children broken and bloodied,

others dancing daboke next to ruins of homes.

At Fairbridge outside the Chapel of Holy Innocents

I listened to violins piercing purple darkness,

lamentations of heartbreak at this senseless destruction.

I kicked the red dirt of Australian refuge.

Last night I stood with

displaced mothers of Ukraine,

baking hope into Khachapuri bread,

bottling brine of Leucine enkephalin

born of their collective pain

with spices, pickled cabbage,

beetroot and pepper.

For healing broken hearts

Cannot be done alone.

Jill Turner  |  13th June 2025