St. Winifred’s Well (2)

these beams that were living beams—

these arcs that were living arcs—

600 years ago—the forest of souls

discloses—as beneath a wind—

in the distance, lambs huddled

as they do now, in evil weather—

& some bear hatchet-marks

(according to the diary, “to take plaster”—

to be buried

in a green thing—in this grave

of slaughtered oak—the rain slakes

what it can no longer succor—

I sleep within the forest’s cist—

(& my feet, now oddly whole,

I who have not suffered

with a worker’s praise—

We are common in this way

tracing the glistening surface—

cast down into the body’s pure end

which is fire, & fire’s perfect dream—

wood’s oblate memory—the rings

with which the pagans

mark their earthly marriage vows—

at the heart the living bone—

(but Drink from me, if my Lord wills—