It is not in the baby’s wail, puckering at limp breast,
eyes drawn back in a death mask skull.
Madonna and child together perverse.
It is not in the futile scrape, bucket bumped down a dry well,
miles trudged in raging sun.
Deserts of sea soon to cross.
It is not in the flood rise of fury, sweeping houses away,
hounded people without shelter.
Unwilling pilgrims of no faith.
It is not in the earth cracked open, salt lines staked out in blood,
wars fought by boys and men.
Illegitimate nations, stillborn at birth.
It is to be found in those waking dreams,
that yet may be, in time to come,
that gentle rain that nurtures nature, cradles comfort, sounding hope.
Monica Balt is a Swedish citizen, born in Guyana, educated in the UK and now living in the Netherlands with her Dutch husband. She is currently working on her first novel. Connect with her online: monicabalt.com and on Twitter: @monicahbalt