The Water Diviner

Late, I have come to a parched land

doubting my gift, if gift I have,

the inspiration of water

spilt, swallowed in the sand.

To hear once more water trickle,

to stand in a stretch of silence

the divining pen twisting in the hand:

sign of depths alluvial.

Water owns no permanent shape,

sags, is most itself descending;

now, under the shadow of the idol,

dry mouth and dry landscape.

No rain falls with a refreshing sound

to settle tubular in a well,

elliptical in a bowl. No grape

lusciously moulds it round.

Clouds have no constant resemblance

to anything, blown by a hot wind,

flying mirages; the blue background,

light constructions of chance.

To hold back chaos I transformed

amorphous mass—and fire and cloud—

so that the agèd gods might dance

and golden structures form.

I should have built, plain brick on brick,

a water tower. The sun flies on

arid wastes, barren hells too warm

and me with a hazel stick!

Rivulets vanished in the dust

long ago, great compositions

vaporized, salt on the tongue so thick

that drinking, still I thirst.

Repeated desert, recurring drought,

sometimes hearing water trickle,

sometimes not, I, by doubting first,

believe; believing, doubt.

Copyright Credit: Dannie Abse, “The Water Diviner” from New and Collected Poems, published by Hutchinson. Used by permission of The Random House Group Limited, http://www.randomhouse.co.uk.

Source: White Coat Purple Coat: Collected Poems 1948-1988 (Penguin Putnam Inc., 1994)