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The village well
By this well,
Where fresh waters still quietly whisper
As when I
First accompanied Mother and filled a baby gourd,
By this well,
Where many an evening its clean water cleaned me;
This silent well,
Dreaded haunt of the long haired Musambwa,
Who basked
In the mid-day sun reclining on the rock
Where I now sit
Welling up with many poignant memories;
This spot,
Which has rung with the purity of child laughter;
This spot,
Where eye spoke secretly to responding eye;
This spot,
Where hearts pounded madly in many a breast;
By this well,
Over-hung by leafy branches of sheltering trees
I first noticed her.
I saw her in the cool of a red, red evening.
I saw her
As if I had not seen her a thousand times before.
By this well
My eyes asked for love, and my heart went mad.
I stuttered
And murmured my first words of love
And cupped,
Her heaving breasts with my trembling hands.
In this well,
In the clear waters of this whispering well,
The silent moon
With a smile witnessed our inviolate vows
And the kisses
That left us weak and breathless.
It is dark.
It is dark by the well that still whispers.
It is darker,
It is utter darkness in the heart that bleeds
By this well,
Where magic has evaporated but memories linger.
Of damp death
The rotting foliage reeks,
And the branches
Are grotesque talons of hungry vultures,
For she is dead;
The one I first loved by this well.
— Christopher Henry Muwanga Barlow
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