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There’s an empty ache inside me

that will not let me write

my creative well has sprung a leak

and any precious moisture left

has sunk

into the thirsty earth surrounding

yet still I return

again and again

sending down my heavy bucket

into an empty hole

still thinking



it will bring me what I need

the next time my tired arms

draw the bucket up.


So focused am I

on my old well and bucket

I fail to notice

let alone appreciate

what’s been growing

all around it

that I yet refuse to see


The leakage has fed

unintentional wonders

and an oasis of flowers

grasses and trees

have flourished around

my barren well

and when my tired arms

can heave no more

I lean on my well’s walls


the dark emptiness beneath

as the whisper of  new life

greenery and colour

crowds ever closer

begging me

“Wake up,

turn around,

we are here.”