Patterned now with reflected peace,
surface calmed
in an over-drawn veil,
the pool understands illusion needs
a tangible
face to be contained.
No less real, grief-stricken thoughts
have a place
where troubles impinge no longer,
not stirred any more
they lie dormant, like images
held under impulse, for
still water's alchemy changes form.
Which rises again as Pain, altered
by decomposition
to Hope,
mutated by deep and
silent soaking.
Still are the waters which translate,
by capping, hurt's
vocabulary.
