the water diviner

 

  

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Late, I have come to a parched land   

doubting my gift, if gift I have,   

the inspiration of water 

spilt, swallowed in the sand. 

To hear once more water trickle,   

to stand in a stretch of silence 

the divining pen twisting in the hand:   

sign of depths alluvial. 

Water owns no permanent shape,   

sags, is most itself descending; 

now, under the shadow of the idol,   

dry mouth and dry landscape. 

No rain falls with a refreshing sound   

to settle tubular in a well, 

elliptical in a bowl. No grape 

lusciously moulds it round. 

Clouds have no constant resemblance   

to anything, blown by a hot wind,   

flying mirages; the blue background,   

light constructions of chance. 

To hold back chaos I transformed   

amorphous mass—and fire and cloud—   

so that the agèd gods might dance   

and golden structures form. 

I should have built, plain brick on brick,   

a water tower. The sun flies on 

arid wastes, barren hells too warm   

and me with a hazel stick! 

Rivulets vanished in the dust 

long ago, great compositions 

vaporized, salt on the tongue so thick   

that drinking, still I thirst. 

Repeated desert, recurring drought,   

sometimes hearing water trickle,   

sometimes not, I, by doubting first,   

believe; believing, doubt.

 

 

—Dannie Abse

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