Brooke Forbes

I hold space for peace and justice in tiny places.

Like cracks in old tea cups,
Like empty jars once full of jam,
Like between the folds of freshly pressed sheets,
Like secret cupboards, long forgotten, gathering dust.

I have hidden it here, hoping, one day, we can find them and pull them out.

I’ve been hoping this tiny collection will grow and take hold. That I could watch the roots and stems grow, strong and green, equidistant from each other, in perfect symmetry.

But these tiny places don’t get enough sunlight, they’ve never seen the light of day. There is no room for growth here, no space to cast fresh hope.

And these tiny spaces for peace and justice linger in silent seclusion, starting back at themselves, with nothing more to say.

If someone was to speak of peace and justice, their voice would crack and crumble – chocking silently as the mould creeps on in.