Old Udde-Well Pond is dark and deep,
Its waters shunned by tup and sheep,
The haunt of badger, fox and deer—
Of silent pools and nameless fear.
The black-bricked well is running still
Though none come now to drink their fill;
Udde’s odd name carved upon the spout.
White crosses keep the witches out.
For centuries, on muddied tracks,
With yokes and buckets on their backs,
Folk fetched the water, rain or shine,
And left the rest for scaep and kine.
Now, pond and well lie wild, forlorn,
Forgotten, bound in rush and thorn;
I’ve heard that once, in cruel despair,
A young lass drowned her sorrow there.