The well.

The well.

His head hung

Down to the glass

Close enough to see

It clouding with every breath.

Heavy with dread

Even though I knew

Brevity was not his gift,

‘I am dry.’

He began

Even with a drink in front of him?

He did have an eye for drama

‘What do you mean.’ I asked.

‘I have gone too often

To the well

And it has run dry.

What was once easy

Has become the devil’s work.

An unrelenting graft

A hopeless task.

My nights are dark

Dismal

Vacant places

Cold and without comfort

The days

A long stretch

Of failure to unpick knots,

Unravel my purpose

Sift the wheat from the chaff.

There is no gold in the pan

Not one nugget.

I have become

A writer without words

They have broken free

Escaped

Left me bereft

Fumbling

Struck dumb

A man without a tongue

A mute writer is no man at all.’

But the answer was

Plain enough to see

There comes a time when

All wells run dry

It is natural

For the bedrock

Of our lives to be revealed

As a stepping stone

A springboard

To a future

Viewed from a different standpoint.

At such time we must

Up sticks

Follow the new growth

The green shoots

And look to dig elsewhere

‘The answer is simple.’

I said

He lifted an eyebrow

Unconvinced.

‘If your well has run dry

Shift your ground and

Dig another well.’