Well


I know this path by magic not by sight.

Behind me on the hillside the cottage light

is like a star that’s gone astray. The moon


is waning fast, each blade of grass a rune


inscribed by hoarfrost. This path’s well worn.


I lug a bucket by bramble and blossoming blackthorn.

I know this path by magic not by sight.


Next morning when I come home quite unkempt


I cannot tell what happened at the well.


You spurn my explanation of a sex spell


cast by the spirit who guards the source


that boils deep in the belly of the earth,


even when I show you what lies strewn


in my bucket — a golden waning moon,


seven silver stars, our own porch light,


your face at the window staring into the dark.

Paula Meehan (1996)

Paula Meehan explains and reads "Well" here.