Deep into ever-dimming light
where dampness dwells on the walls
of what seems a bottomless well,
sinks an old wooden bucket
attached by heavy rope
to a crank turned with ease
by his big strong hands.
Down, down in the murky shadows
the bucket magically fills
with water before he hauls it
out of the darkness and into the light.
The bucket arrives full of clean, clear water
glistening in the sun where the reflection
casts playful spots upon my face.
A ladle hangs, as it always does,
from a hook beside the crank
which he dutifully dips into the water.
Carefully, as though the contents were a prize,
he brings the tarnished ladle to my lips
for a sip of sparkling cold refreshment.
This is how I remember it… decades ago on Grandpa’s farm.