Daily Poem: The Well at Mylor ~ Penelope Shuttle
The Well at Mylor
~ 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.
The Holy Well at Mylor Cornwall
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