Oh, little town of Seething Wells, how still we see thee lie – Meandering through our own waterworks, we risked being run down, by joggers or commuters we crossed at lights.
Tourists from another world, gazing in awe at blue painted railings, snapping brickwork and each other. Visitors gathering samples to take back to our craft.
Like schoolboys we searched our pockets for things to drop into a well, took photos of the sun, quenched by filterbeds.
Brave voyagers, we walked amongst the resting places of a thousand souls. Where were these creatures for whom water had been cleaned and towers built?
We called, yet no one answered, tuned instead to cobbled together tales of northern streets on glowing screens hung on walls where once their ancestors gazed benignly down. Good grace stayed our hands that longed to knock and wake them up.
Leave them to their slumbers, like Titania’s host, we must away, to pick through the gathered fruits, choosing which to eat and which to store away.
By Robin Rutherford