The Growing Of A Quenchless Thirst Poem by Mark Heathcote

10yrs old following a river back upstream.
Into some unknown, field climbing a gnarled gate.
The sun glinting-gold hurt my eyes.
And rabbits sat sentry everywhere
outside their own, muddy boltholes.
I found myself in an extraordinary place
at the bottom of a hill, and somehow
I felt right at home.
The river bent sharply, and underfoot
the ground softened still.
And where the clay turned-mercury
a spring bubbled into a crystal-water-lily.
Here my thirst grew and grew, so I drank
and drank and I became that acreage
I became a water entity in that sacred little arena.