The holy well
A poem
Bristle of reeds an argument of trees harrow an overgrown mile to a place whispering devotion and despair A breeze smoothes grass walked by generations I imagine their reverent steps circling this ground, listen for their voices Ragged knots of cloth, tokens of devotion flutter all about a hut worn smooth by weather and belief Hawthorn tree rises crooked from the roof, rootless and reaching as the prayers of penitents and pilgrims Kneeling, I touch my fingers to sunlight-fractured water I do not seek a miracle at this holy well, only a drop of faith to quench my thirst
Nora, I folded into your poem and stayed there awhile. It did indeed quench a thirst. Thank you.
A beauty. Love those last lines!