Mandala

Through morning you carry the aftermath
of dreams — a raw ache in the shoulders
as if wings had been torn off, your chest
tightening round memories fluttering
to be free. Once, you woke, half-buried
in a desert, glimpsing, as you gasped for air,
a circle of pools, set in hillside earth,
shimmering behind the heat waves of a mirage.
It changed nothing, yet lingered through days
of desolation till a slow greening began,
and you were forced to believe in
transformation again, sensing, just outside
your range of vision, those jewelled waters —
waiting to be contemplated, to heal.