the well (1)

Poem #321 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction

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he is a-twist
at the end of a rope
in the black nowhere
of the well

the dark below
is so solid
he could persuade himself
almost
that he might land there

find purchase
for his feet

but as he watches them
dangled
in a slow twirl
he knows
the only solid
is the colour
and it will shape-shift
to leave a space
that he can never
traverse

above
the black is pricked
by a pinpoint

his rope is a solid thing
where it rises
before his eyes
but it dwindles
so fast
into the suggestion
of a flaxen thread
that might be an illusion
of non-sense
a noir mirage

he touches his nose
to the tautness
of the rope
seeking a reassurance
that the rope
at least
is real

his breath is loud
in his ears
as he breathes it

a moist echo of itself
within the aura
of his hopelessness

he long ago shouted
until the sound
reverberating
grew hoarse
and became no more
than a croak

roke

cro ..

he wonders if the well
is the

what is

when you die

has he died

what is death
down here
alone

regardless
he feels the deed
is already done

---

© Frank Prem 2018

Bachelard and me Poem #322: the well (2)