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At the crack of dawn
in the pale light of the antique waterhole
he stirred
awakened by the chirps of birds
and the rumble of cicadas,
by the cool water lapping
against the crumbling old stones
upon which lay a carpet of moss
green and luscious
despite the dark gloom he felt.
No longer the Sun shone like the old days
where he had been of use
pulled up from rope still tied for water
a source of life
it had been something to be so revered
to hear the mumbled speeches of village women
or children playing nearby
the gush of water as he emptied himself onto the ground with a splash.
An age it’s been now
you can tell by the weed that grew
like a halo around the well’s mouth
the lowered water that plunged him deeper and deeper down
and since that night long ago
when the rope had slipped off
leaving him falling in a panic
to the cool embrace of water, doomed.
None retrieved, they knew not how
instead one morning he heard another splash
hoping some how it had been himself
but upon inspection he was still rope-less
and beside him plunged into the water’s depth
a shiny new metal bucket
gleaming and gloating
his rope thicker and knottier than ever seen.
However, even those jealous days were gone now
for the old wooden Pail waterlogged and drowning
in his own sorrows and memories
of fresh air, and tall swaying grasses
or the laughter of children of men
what he’d give to see that beloved sunrise again
the happy colours of the past.
As the storm overheard thundered and rumbled
through cracks of lightning and torrential rain,
poor old Pail turned on his belly
he’d rather look at the green of moss
than the darker clouds.
So ignore he did the pattering rain and fell asleep.
In the clear morning when he woke
he almost jumped in surprise
for upon a flooded field of talk grasses lay he
with dawn creeping up the sky.
The rain had filled the well
and released him of his solitude.
Water, his old friend.
So there, in waist deep he stood
gleefully watched the day rise
bringing back colours in his life.