Obscured, hidden by ferns and moss
Echoes of summer days now gone
With excitement rushing through us
We remove the slate; we uncover the well.
Cool fresh; a distant black mirror
Peat moss, grass, a smell of burning turf
Below the ground silent and mysterious
Cupped hands for us to taste
Fresh like sprinkled dew; cold as hard frost.
As a very young kid we holidayed on the North West coast of Ireland - the area was very rural and remote with many places not having plumbed-in water. My Mum's old homestead was one such place, and every day we would go with my Dad to the underground well nearby and fill up two enormous enamel buckets with water.
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(and I loved your end note; it's always lovely to hear where the writer is coming from, what inspired them).
