We were pilgrims throughout that Summer drought, a mother and her bedraggled brood;
three sandaled Hansels in a broken line of tattered dungarees.
Down the black sticky road we went and through a stile, smooth as alabaster
to cross the trodden grass that cried out
for rain, until we came
to the Well.
Fearful at first, they peered from the constant of my shadow into the sacred
imitating Mother, cupped hands into tiny bronze chalices, vied for turns to
greedily scoop from the source.
The water never failed
it trickled down into the smooth hollow of their throats
where it glimmered like untarnished beads of childhood.
copyright; wilkinson 2013