Drawn to wells,
as any small child is,
and those rusted water pumps
with improbable smooth-worn handles,
that leaked and wheezed,
and the clattering tin buckets
that dropped on soaking ropes
into the dark,
coming back loaded
on a straining wooden winding windlass,
to slosh and spill bright fresh water.

The local thatcher would prop his bike
against our well,
and drop his dusty bag of tools and knives,
and rest and drink and smoke,
and pass the time of day,
temporarily,
with other village folk,
and cast a well-trained eye
over their eaves and rigging.

There was something innocently alluring
about the deep down drop,
the whizzing rope and flying handle,
the rich smell of damp brickwork,
and the flat smack of the bucket
at the end of the plummet,
the circle of encapsulated sky,
deep down and dank,
that swallowed coins and pebbles
in the ripples and the shimmers.

And if you spoke into the maw,
the well would answer back,
mimicking and echoing,
with the clean ring of reverberation
from deep within,
like a musical monster
that lived alone,
down in the weed and moss,
trapped in a timeless vivarium.

Leaning over,
you could see yourself,
your face looking back
from way down in the bottom,
and scare yourself
with thoughts of rats,
and other things gone rotten,
and hear the plop of the penny dropped,
and the whispers of all the ancient wishes,
long gone and long forgotten.