The Well is Deep in Thistle

The well is deep in thistle;
It clumps and crowds the stones.
The tufts are incense-purple,
The leaves are green as brine.
So dense and thick it grows here,
The stones cannot be seen.
However could you see them?
The thistle is too full.

Sir: tell me when the riddles
Began to fret the edge --
I saw them rip the core, Sir;
I saw that day with you.
Since you, Sir, would not keep me,
You ought to tell me this.
Sir, bend your head and tell me:
Acknowledge what you owe.

The well is deep in bracken;
It rustles on the stones.
The fronds are sere and whirring;
They rattle in the air.
Just try to drop a stone in:
You cannot hear a splash.
However could you hear it?
The soughing is so loud.

My Mother! Tell me, show me!
You heard the fringes tear.
Remind me how they sounded;
Unfold the things you know.
If only I could reckon,
How easy I would be!
But till the threads unravel
Who understands the fray?

The well is deep in bramble;
It snakes across the stones.
The spines are harsh and jagged,
As long as crickets’ wings.
So thick the bramble grows here,
You cannot walk this way.
However could you walk here?
The thorns are far too sharp.

My Father! Tell me, show me!
You saw it sailing near.
Point out the spotted sky-line;
Another time I’ll know.
Then, Father, give me comfort,
For just a little space.
It isn’t that I’m daunted --
But who could fail to balk?

The well is deep in thistle;
It clumps and crowds the stones.
And you, Sir, far away now,
Are you not thick with shame?