'That'll put the jizz back in you,'
said old Brid, her eyes glinting,
as she handed me a bowl of real water
from the purest well in Gleann an Atha.
A well kept sweet and neat
by her people's people, the precious
legacy of her household,
tucked away in a nook,
a ditch around it for protection,
a flagstone on its mouth.
But for a long time now there is a snake
of pipe that leaks in from distant hills
and in every kitchen, both sides
of the glen, water spits from a tap;
bitter water without spark
that leaves a bad taste in the mouth
and among my people
the real well is being forgotten.
'It's hard to find a well these days,'
said old Brid, filling up my bowl again.
'They're hiding in rushes and juking in grass,
all choked up and clatty with scum
but for all the neglect they get
their mettle is still true
Look for your own well, pet,
For there's a hard time coming.
They will have to be a going back to sources.'
From 'The Well' by Cathal O Searcaigh