She came every morning to draw water
Like an old bat staggering up the field:
The pump’s whooping cough, the bucket’s clatter
And slow diminuendo as it filled,
Announced her. I recall
Her grey apron, the pocked white enamel
Of the brimming bucket, and the treble
Creak of her voice like the pump’s handle.
Nights when a full moon lifted past her gable
It fell back through her window and would lie
Into the water set out on the table.
Where I have dipped to drink again, to be
Faithful to the admonishment on her cup,
Remember the Giver fading off the lip.
~ A Drink of Water, from Field Work by Seamus Heaney (Irish), b. 1939
*** and the treble
Creak of her voice like the pump’s handle***
I hear. I see.
I Love! Xxx
Me too, Kim. I hear it!
The Irish have a lilt to all that they utter, don’t they. This was lovely. :)
There’s something unique in the Irishing of words, isn’t there?
Thanks for sharing this Narelle, lots of wonderful words in this poem. have a great week-end, Russell.
You’re welcome, Russell. Have a great weekend too whether in Reykjavík or Halifax. Really enjoying your woolly and stripey creatures.
Glad you’re enjoying them, I’m in Halifax, there’s a bit of a lag between the drawing, and the scanning/upploading. Russell.