top of page
  • Writer's pictureTony Frobisher

The Well

The Well

The well stood untended, Bricks, red and weathered, hand-fired  Rounded and smoothed over centuries. Absent-minded, I tossed a coin into the darkness. A coin, heavy, a reassuring solidity. It disappeared into the blackness and Fell unheard, unseen, unnoticed. Until I had forgotten it had ever nestled in the warmth of my pocket.

I did not hear it splash in the bottom of the well I did not hear it clatter against the side walls Nothing. Just a silence that floated from the emptiness. A constant stream of endless nothing. Had that coin ever existed? Had it been lost to the black quiet, absorbed to nothingness? I stared into the void for minutes, that turned to hours. I called to the depths. Shouted, unfathomable words.

Yet darkness never echoes. Never replies. The blackness contained those lost words, as it hid the coin. Selfish, depriving the light, ignorant of sorrow.  But the well heard those anguished cries and held them. Never to be released. For what good would release do? Except to hurt me further. The brick, red and weathered, but silent too. It knew every sadness and loss and secret and desire.

And would forever keep its pact with the well depths.  The blackness that never echoes, never speaks.

3 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All
Anticipation__Walk through winter trees_
bottom of page