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Sibard's Well

My house, named for the Saxon spring, Stands by the sour farmyard, the long- Dry lip that once was Sibard's Well Buried beneath a winding-stone To stop the cattle falling in; Yet underfoot is still the sound At last of night, at first of day, In country silences, a thin Language of water through the clay.

At mornings, in small light, I hear Churn-clink, the bucket handle fall. An iron shirt, a sudden spear Unprop themselves from the farm wall. A voice, in a far, altered speech Beneath my window seems to say, too lived here. I too awoke In quarter-light, when life's cold truth Was all too-clear. As clearly spoke.'

Charles Causley

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