Sacred Waters?

Holy Well, Llanfihangel Genau'r Glyn

Every time I look
into the well
the level is the same
placid equilibrium:
it never rises nor falls.


No water is drawn from it
these days, not for drinking
nor for healing. Little rain


Runs in around the slate cover
over the grill that tops the shaft.
Around the edges a shiver
might be seen on the flat surface
beneath, the dark water
inscrutably responsive to enquiry,
deflecting the question
for further articulation.


This is tranquility, and yet
yards away the stream rushes
over the bank above and crashes
noisily to its channel below
when in full flood, or ebbs
back to a trickle
after a dry spell:


It is not constant like the well.

~~*~~

Is it the well
Where the pool lies still
Beneath the grill cover,


Or the nearby falls
Where the stream fills
The air with living water?

A Glimpse of Summer

Last night, in the late twilight, but before it was dark enough for any stars to show, Venus blazed towards the western horizon with the crescent Moon and Jupiter nearby. This brought the approaching magic of the Midsummer season in spite of the coolness of the day. Yesterday began with rain but by evening the skies were a clear blue with hardly a cloud. Later, in the half-dark, I heard a night bird calling : a single note followed by a double note. What was it? Not an owl, though their calls are frequent through the woods across the valley at night. It haunted me to sleep.

Today it is cloudy again. No rain, but the woodland soil is wet underfoot. The stream rushes down the valley edged along its wet banks and up the rocky sides with beds of golden saxifrage. I sit, as often, on the seat by the well and drift into summer on the sound of the rushing waters. The small garden by the well-side is in full bloom. The meadows are lush with green speckled with yellow buttercups. The wood greening to shade as the leaf cover fills the branches. The path from the well to the ancient yew winds through a deeper shade past the younger yew trees that surround it.

As I emerge from the yew bower back into the light, Summer steals surreptitiously out of Spring.