Going to the Well (Poetry)

My heart is going over old wounds —
fingering the damage —
thought has fallen into a deep well
dank and narrow
the light above far off — coin-small —
a grim grey moon devoid of
reflected promise.

The stones are ancient —
the building bricks of disappointments buried where
earth has given them a place
not often visited —
a home for the lost
where water waits at a low level
dark and bitter-sweet
with longing.

One sip is enough — although
the rusted pail holds much more —
the flavour bites —
provokes an icy sting of hurt —
leaves love bleeding — thin cuts opening afresh
warn this pilgrimage for healing is in vain
old scars are livid and my heart protests —
hauls thought back to the light and heaves
a fearful rock across — stops up
the well’s deceiving mouth.