The Well

I found a well once
In the dark heart of a wood

Where pigeons ruffled up into a skylight of branches
And disappeared.

The well was old, so mossed and broken
It was almost a part of the wood

Gone back to nature. Carefully, almost fearfully,
I looked down into its depths

And saw the lip of water shifting and tilting
Heard the music of dripping stones.

I stretched down, cupped a deep handful
Out of the Winter darkness of its world

And drank. That water tasted of moss, of secrets,
Of ancient meetings, of laughter,

Of dark stone, of crystal -
It reached the roots of my being

Assuaged a whole Summer of thirst.
I have been wandering for that water ever since.

Kenneth Steven