Aunty with her weathered hands,
smiling face, and fettered candour
reaches out with a gift,
of my manifested mantra.
A small chest, with speckled seeds,
crimson sand, and freckled beads
Its timeless OMmm, this stagnant seer
constructs my being and disintegrates fear.
A humble vessel, enveloped in scratches,
its sturdy geometry, threaded by latches
my attachment, transcends isolated raptures.
Freedom, from the abattoir, of which I’m a captive.
The crimson sand’s fragrance, fluently unassuming,
a little solace from the conspiring and betrayal that is looming,
but from the rain’s rage, and sun’s kiss, 
the unforeseen is blooming.
The genesis of a memory, for moments worth stealing,
this essence that blankets, is my psalm while I’m kneeling, 
‘thank you’, the only words for the person it’s revealing,
my manifested mantra, I have found my healing.

Matthew Heffernan reads 'The Small Chest of Sand'