Strange Bedfellows [10]: Saint Mogue’s Well

Saint Mogue’s Well

They took me, the women
of the house, wrapped my
wart ravaged hands in beads
and bandages, drove me
to Clonmore, placed me
on my knees, hands in a pool
of slime-green water, down
granite steps at the corner
of a roadside ditch, gathered
round me like witches,
recited their ritual-chants
and I was cured.

Today I want to leave
this ward, its prods
and probes, the music
of the sick and dying,
coughs and convulsions;
rip these drips
from my veins, spit
out the pills, medicine.
Drive out to St. Mogue’s
Well, irrigate in its pool
of holy filth,
wait for a miracle.

Our Poem of the Week submissions on the theme of It’s The End of the World As We Know It are now closed – thank you to everyone who submitted and we’ll be in touch shortly.

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