They gave me sweet tea when I was mad,
stirred slowly, steaming hot, handed over
with a clink of spoon on the edge of the
cup, as if to signal, the time had come,

when comfort would be offered, and a
moment of liquid grace, could be taken
down, into the depths of frozen self, as
if, that heat could melt the hardened ice

of fear, so long built up, layer upon layer,
over the years; a crevasse of such great
immensity, that a light dropped, would
disappear from sight, in an instant, long

before it ever reached the bottom, if
indeed, there was a point where it all
ended, and from where an echo would
resound, up, up, up through weeping

cliffs, to signify that there was an end,
and, that sometime, it would all dissolve
into itself, disappearing, deliquescing,
because now the demons had been

consumed and I could once more,
drink deep of tea and of sweetness.

—
Roslyn Ross was born in Adelaide, South Australia and has lived around Australia and the world. A journalist/editor by profession, she began writing creatively in her forties and has completed five novels and one work of non-fiction based on her four years in Angola during the civil war. She is currently writing a non-fiction book tracing her Greek great-grandfather, a biography of her mother, and a book on spirituality as well as a sixth novel.