I Dug a Well the Other Day

In my head, I did.
Just like any other decision:
Rubbing my hands on a raw cold morning
Or straining on tiptoe
To peer over a wall as a child
Or raising my hands in worship
To the lover of my soul

I had the plans
The thrill of design:
Large blocks of Dartmoor granite
Lining the shaft
Wet with the oozing of the earth
And deluges of rain pouring
Down and down

Like no other well that I know
It had, has, three pools
You can trace ripples on the first
And hear the plop of a pebble
In the second. After that, darkness,
And a depth beyond what we call here

On Monday I lowered my cup
For the first time
Weary with the heat of the day
The sun having done its desiccating work.
Closing my eyes,
I tilted my lips to drink –
Such thirst-quenching sweet water

Tuesday arrived. I ended the day
Caked in sweat and grime
My shirt the colour of flesh
My flesh, a layer of dust.
Buckets later, I filled a trough, and
Buried in baptism, my tears swam
Mingling with the well-water

Wednesday.
It’s always Wednesday from this point on
I lowered myself down
Past Monday, past Tuesday
Into a depth where few have been
There are no cups here or buckets
Only a sign that reads:

Diving is permitted

Here, all clocks stand still
Waiting until you surface
And look up, and up…
And remember:
I dug a well, the other day.
In my head, I did.
No, not just my head.