A rewrite of a poem from 2019. I regularly return to the topic of holy wells; their magic, their timelessness. People have been offering prayers at wells for millennia, but, in modern times, there is a atmosphere of precariousness around them; in a way it adds to their specialness. Many have been neglected, forgotten, destroyed or, since drying up, have lost their following, but all, since their thread sews centuries together should be preserved and respected.
Holy Well
The bottom of the well is a mosaic of wishes;
each one shining.
I have left my dream dancing in a tree,
a tree growing on solid rock.
Perhaps the dancers fall into the well;
perhaps their after-life is a gleam;
perhaps wishes become dreams;
perhaps our after-life is a dreaming.
Here the spring weaves itself into lush pasture;
where gods, immemorial, have changed
water to verdure,
perhaps this, indeed, is the place to sow a seed.