Each morning
Clanking his way
Across the yard
A short, stumpy
Crunch the gravel
Kind of chap
Lifts his cap.
Here for the morning
Clear cold water
Rope and bucket
Stands above the well
Down with the rattle
Clank and splash
Whiplash.
A flick of the wrist
Slaked his bucket
Twenty feet down.
Then the silent heave
On the dry rope
Filled to the very brim.
D’ye see the grin.
With what else
Would you brew tea?
I never could master that knack
Of flicking a bucket to its fill.
And why should I try?
Each to his own mastery
Mystery.
JL Dec 21 17:49
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