Anahorish

My "place of clear water"
The first hill in the world
Where springs washed into
The shiny grass

And darkened cobbles
In the bend of the lane,
Anahorish, soft gradient
Of constant, lowel-meadow

After-image of lamps
Swing 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 dung hills