WATER FROM THE WELL

‘I was drawing water from the well
when he suddenly looked at me-
I was so moved
That I let slip the rope.’

(Traditional African)

There are no wells in this village now;
Oxfam bore holes offer pumps and
Girls carry big buckets on small heads,
Bodies swaying on the slow walk home.

I work in the city, returning
On Saturday to tend the family field,
To hear stories around the fire at night.
I keep silent; city stories breed envy.

On Sunday afternoon, the bus
Belches black smoke on the road to Mutare,
And I recall your face at your mother’s house
As I said goodbye, my bag full of mangoes.

Empty hearted, I gaze at the hot valley,
Count the days to my next visit,
To the sight of you framed so neatly
In the doorway of your mother’s house.

There are no wells in this village now
But when you looked at me, I was so moved
That I let slip the rope of my life.

Copyright: Madresicilia2008