by ​Andrew Senior

To the well
Alone,
Left behind 
The sixth one, the sixth hour.
Midday
In Sychar. 

A weary traveller
Opens his mouth,
A question
To draw 
The common law daughter.
Nothing about them is right.

At place of old, 
Ancient dug. 
Blessing of ancestors.
Can anyone be greater 
Than the giver
Of this well?

Still water	
To be drawn,
Still throat dry,
Lip cracked,
But the stranger
Emboldens the tongue.

And it is said 
They cannot speak,
She of the idolatrous 
Assyrian dead,
He of wall builders,
Of gate setters, 

Yet chose
The Samaria way,
I to whom you speak.

And the time is coming 
When the call 
Will no longer be 
To city,
To mountain, 
But to all unbound.

Everything told
To Sychar’s misfit, 
A believer
Welling up 
To eternity.
Asks, could this be him? 

To the well
Alone.
Returned
The first harvest, 
Gladdened 
The sower’s heart.

---

Andrew Senior is a writer of poetry and short literary and speculative fiction, based in Sheffield, UK. His work has been published in various places, including Ekstasis, Fathom and Story Warren.