The Spring

I can take you to a spring
On the borders of an old lawn
In the Island hills,
Lost in bushes above a small pool,
A woodland pool
That revels overgrown
In repose of lilies,
Reflections of clouds
and never goes dry,
Fed by a seeping spring.

Above, this spring rises
In a small stone cistern
I stumbled across,
Now clogged with moss and dead leaves,
Branches, mud and forest mold,
beside a rusty lamp post
Deep in the trees.

Whose were the hands
That laid the stones,
The dream of it,
Who remembers the purpose
For which it was built?

Yet a debris fettered spring
Begs to run fresh again,
Boiling up from its caverns
abundantly
Fresh and clear.

I remember asking ,
Those dry and thirsty years ago,
Of one in a desert, fasting,
He gave me a long drink
from his flowing crystal spring.

I have never been thirsty again.

Now contemplating this choked place,
Something of flowing
In me needs,
More than understands.

Something human longs,
Needs the world
A garden paradise,
Where every spring wells
Abundantly,
Feeding streams,
Fresh and cool and clear,
Where no one ever thirsts again.