In eighteen eighty four
a monolithic feat of engineering
shifts the Ribble’s course:
no water to the springs.
From the hill’s abyssal deep
a rumbling of the bowels,
a vexed aquatic shriek:
no water to the wells.
Breached within the chasm
a dragon lies gasping
with a pain she cannot fathom:
no water to the springs.
Water table reft
her giving womb unswells,
surging through the clefts:
no water to the wells.
Unravelling inside
her serpent magic streams
to join the angry tides:
no water to the springs.
Culverted and banked
her serpent powers fail,
leaking dry and cracked:
no water to the wells.
The spinning dragon-girl
tumbles from her swing
and slips to the underworld:
no water to the springs.
Her spirit will not rise
through the dead and empty tunnels,
disconsolate we cry:
no water to the wells.
The hill, no longer healing
stands broken of its spell,
no water to the springs,
no water to the wells.
From Peneverdant 