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the year I was twelve

two archeologist friends of my mother

(how thin and enthusiastic they were)

came with spades and trowels

and dug near the great oak

at the corner of the paddock

where a small spring rose

•

and soon uncovered

beneath the heavy turf

the votive well of a Celtic

goddess called SAINT CWYLL

the dedicatory altar was broken

the well’s water contained:

a child’s skull

three small stone heads

and offerings of coins and shells

•

Father took the skull

and buried it

between the feet of the oak

where the roots twist into the ground

~~~

my brother said:

“in the war Father was a hero”

we were both surprised at that,

thought of him always giving ground

beneath the onslaughts of our mother

a vague but fierce woman

very emphatic in her speech

~~~

and so he begot

child after child

(aunts blamed him for this

as though our mother

had nothing to do with it)

and he grew poorer burdened

with our education

and the upkeep of the old house

beside the river Ain

•

but we did not notice

foraged for flowers

and berries in the coppice

and were always inventing

sea-journeys and pilgrimages

from which we returned tired and holy

carrying the little ones on our shoulders

~~~

and later he was happy

sitting back and watching

his seed carried over the water