I have always had a fondness for wells - the image of a circle of pale water, reflecting the stars, is one which has long haunted my imagination - for me, wells are portals to different worlds - like stretches of clear water, amongst tall reeds, they call for votive offerings - I can see, if I close my eyes, the precious sacrifices, sinking to the gleaming depths -
I can see, in my mind's eye, the well in which Turu Okada's soul drifted from his body - I can see, too, the cross of eyes set in the wall of the well described in The Treasure of Abbot Thomas -
In Venice, I saw grey cats, stretched out upon stone well heads - in Cerne Abbas, I gazed down at Saint Augustine's Well - no faces were reflected in the quiet water -
In Split, we saw a well head in a deserted courtyard - the palace was full of memory - washing hung from a line fixed to a delicate pillar - bedroom shutters were flung open -
Anne peered into the well - I followed her, leaning over, resting my chin against the warm stone - there, below, was the circle of water, reflecting the sky -
No comments:
Post a Comment