Winter 1941 • Vol. PoetryFebruary 10, 2024 |

The Dowser

An inkling only, whisper in the bonesOf strange weather on the way,Twitch of the eyelid, shadow of a passing bird.It is coming some time soon. What? or who? An inkling only,Adumbration of unknown gloryDrew to the feet of Saint Francis where the wavesBroke, an army of fish. Humming wires; feel of a lost limbCut off in another life;Trance on the tripod; effulgenceOf headlights beyond the rise in the road. And the hazel rod bent, dipping, contorting,Snake from sleep; they were rightWho remembered some old fellow(Dead long ago) who remembered the well. 'Dig,' he said, 'dig,'Holding the lantern, the rod bent double,And we dug respecting his knowledge,Not waiting for morning, keenly Dug: the clay was heavyTwo hours heavy beforeThe clink of a spade revealedWhat or whom? We expected a well— A well? A mistake somewhere ...More of a tomb ... Anyway we backed awayFrom the geyser suddenly of light that erupted, sprayedRocketing over the sky azaleas and gladioli.

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece



Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.

Read More

Picture Galleries

By Louis MacNeice

An inkling only, whisper in the bonesOf strange weather on the way,Twitch of the eyelid, shadow of a passing bird.It is coming some time soon. What? or who? An inkling […]

Subscribe

Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.

Donate

With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.