Bezza Bridge

Pink of willowherb
and white of meadowsweet

line the road to Bezza Brook.
Where you cross at Bezza Bridge

step down, step down, step down
in the incantation of the strange-light

hear the brook’s flow see the spirits stream
on the walls of the tunnel of life.

Dwell not on the tunnel of death
lest you hear the Skriker skrike.

Do not look for a rag on the wind
or an eye in the midst of the strange-light.

Bezza Bridge

Spirit of the Aquifer

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.