The Well
There is a wishing well in the woods.
Sometimes late at night I visit,
stealing through the murky forest in my nightdress
Careful not to wake my parents.
I keep to the path; specters catch me if I stray.
Mist ghosts along beside me, my companion on this night.
Woods are not silent at night and the chirr-irr-irr of
Night time insects is my music.
Ahead is the well,
Abandoned to its caved-in roof with
Cobwebs in the corners and
Leaves piled at the concrete base.
Green ivy clings to the wood
Moss taks over the stone
(Weathered time-broken stone) and the
Mortar is falling out in chunks.
A rotting rope hangs from the handle,
Where the crumbling bucket is still attached.
Peer over the edge�see the green-algae water
Far at the bottom of the shaft?
It is hard to see, the murky water
Reflects instead of reveals.
But underneath the water
A new coin will rust.
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