for Michael Longley br br As a child, they could not keep me from wells br And old pumps with buckets and windlasses. br I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells br Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss. br br br One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top. br I savoured the rich crash when a bucket br Plummeted down at the end of a rope. br So deep you saw no reflection in it. br br br A shallow one under a dry stone ditch br Fructified like any aquarium. br When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch br A white face hovered over the bottom. br br br Others had echoes, gave back your own call br With a clean new music in it. And one br Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall br Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection. br br br Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime, br To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring br Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme br To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.