Springs rise where saints have prayed,
Tradition says;
And tells of rivulets and wells
Conceived of rumoured deities.
But streams would have obeyed
No peremptory hand.
Where water has already blessed the land
Saints choose to pray.
Gods walk when glint and spade
Strike, as it brims,
A buried watercourse. One dreams
Meaning which haunts the shade
That falls by bridge and ford,
Lodged in the thought and speech that harken toward
The interminable
Tale given and not made
Or understood,
Which haunts the place. What we might say
Of what it tells would speak of God.