Flowing Well

Flowing Well
John Clare Stokes

Once beneath the magnolia I remember
as a child a flowing well,
ever bubbling upward clear and pure,
a cool place to linger for a spell.

As a child I listened in the swing
on Mrs Mary's front porch,
I could hear the faint flowing,
clear into tannin black ebbing forth,

a remnant of a lane circling,
remains from a slower time and place,
native lime rock walls of the spring,
relics of a once often visited place.

With years the home of Mary fell,
leaving only her shady magnolia tree,
overgrown became the little flowing well,
lost in Florida beside the Sopchoppy.

Who remains to tell me if there
is yet a flowing fountain trickling
down the steep bank gathering ever
clear where the black snakes whistle?

Now I am old and my memory dim,
long, long since my childhood going,
this one request I am offering,
please help me find the flowing,

carry me quickly to the flowing well,
where I can again taste the waters
beneath Mary's magnolia forever to dwell,
ever young around the fountain pure.

This is another of those all true poems. There actually was, is, a flowing well. It was there in the 50-60's when we lived in Sopchoppy. If I recall, you could drive down to it, down the steep bank off the road. It was a sulphur spring, or pipe, that was always flowing. It was beneath the huge oaks and sweet gums, cool and shady. Some day I hope to be able to spend time in Sopchoppy and take a longer look see.