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S.M. Hillier

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Visit from the Sourcier

Not twenty-five. Black hair and long brown hands,
the sourcier from the neighboring village –
and his arm in a sling! Madame, it makes no difference.

Cold master-wind mistrau rips at the grass
perturbing it. He bends, straightens, stands still
a full minute Madame, the mistrau doesn’t matter

then heads off , crosses the long field and where
his Y-shaped stick turns up, he plants a stone.
 I follow, placing flags that wave like poppies.

At the boundary wall he turns back, stares at me
his eyes are deep, Madame, dig where you like
this field, though dry on top, is full of water.

Do I believe, sourcier, sorciere? Is he better than chance?
But I have felt it too, sometimes it seems the house
floats over a lake which draws our bodies’ water down.

Hill-streams feed networks underground; Madame
they say our springs are all connected, from
before time to the great basin below Mt Ventoux.

The thought compels me: all our foundations
lie on water, those earthy tributaries flowing out to sea
through salt caves, facing into the rising tide.

Page(s) 40

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