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.

My response to today’s one-word prompt: Crank