The Well at Mylor Poem by Penelope Shuttle

At Mylor

the water of the well



bears the armour of the light,

it hides and escapes



and stays still

under its hood of rock



amid a galore of graves

and green leaves,



spring of fresh water

beside the sea,



a find, a treasure,

a pedigree,



no idyll

but the essential source,



now retired

from its work of sole sustenance,



living among memories

of former fame,



a saint's hand dipping in

like a taper unquenched,



coins splashing down

for reverence, not luck,



from time to time,

a self-baptism,



secret and quick,

for some



prefer their ritual

out of doors,



water understands this,

and loves the brow



fanned with its body

for reasons the water easily guesses,



for it is the one who blesses,

freely,



freely it runs

its long unceremonious



caress

through my fingers,



and on my lips

tastes ferriferous,



blood-hint at the periphery,

pell-mell mint at the heart.