Late one June morning a child in uniform 

Waits until she is the last, the tree wide 

Enough to hide her from view, rain growing

Heavy. She hoists herself into the opening, 

Understands for the first time the space

In between – the way disobedience feels 

Like hands held flat against softly splintered 

Wood, fingers exploring the undulations 

Of a hidden inner ledge, another language. 

There would be other places later – foreign

Shores or different ways to think. Freedom 

Of concealment. The thrill of energy seeping 

Into cavernousness. Mixed somehow with a 

Faint memory of the smell of flying fox and 

The thundering of large red ants through saw-

Dust. Keeping the others guessing. Voices

Calling for her in a steamy torrent, her back

Dry as if in the hollow eye of the storm.