the writing well

It’s there, I realise.

I use it every day,

drawing on it for normal work.

I learned at school

about water falling from the sky,

soaking into the hills,

then seeping deep

into the earth.

I heard

of underground rivers,

of amazing paintings

found deep in caves

left by past selves.

I often forget

when I draw from my well,

day to day,

mind elsewhere,

that underneath

it’s all still there

waiting to be found again.

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