My “place of clear water”,
the first hill in the world
where springs washed into
the shiny grass
 
and darkened cobbles
in the bed of the lane.
Anahorish, soft gradient
of consonant, vowel-meadow,
 
after-image of lamps
swung through the yards
on winter evenings.
With pails and barrows
 
those mound-dwellers
go waist-deep in mist
to break the light ice
at wells and dunghills.

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