Saint Gormgall's Well

This well is holy but looks foul.

I clean it seven times a year,

shovelling quicklime in the shade.

It fills mysteriously dark red.

Once I found a drowned wheatear

and once an old ram's skull.

How does it rise on top of a hill

and why is it never clear?

By miracle, tradition said:

instead of springing, the rock shed

a slow continual tainted tear

since Brian Boru's fall.

It's named after Saint Gormgall,

hermit, lion, poet, seer

and king's confessor. When it bled

he knew his penitent was dead.

He saw millennial daybreak tear

unwinding from its spool.

Even in drought it will not fail

but bless or curse. Don't interfere.

A bigot sledged the crystal bed:

next day he shot his son in the head

wild fowling. I cut outlets there

to keep it drinkable.

High Island pivots on this pool.

If a fly walks on the water

all's well with your friend abroad.

It quenched Saint Brendan's thirst on board

when he touched here to pray before

setting out for Hy Brasil.

Around the random horseshoe wall

I helped a mason to repair,

pennies, fish-hooks, pins corrode.

A thousand years this carved stone stood

beside the well, giving it power

to comfort or to heal.

LITTLE HUNGER