My mother used to walk around
 that sullen pond,
Ringed with bushes of vermilion flowers,
Sour nettles and wicked brambles
That would reach out to snag her, rip
  her flinching skin.

Frightened, she would hurry past,
Carrying clean pails to fetch clear water
From the chapel pump,
So they could have a cup of tea,
Get the day started.

While the pond turned darkly over,
Long toad tongues snapping their
Out of the ghost ridden air.

                    © 2020 Gwen Grant

4 thoughts on “FETCHING THE WATER

  1. I once travelled with a Walloon, (French speaking Belgium), through France. In a bar I asked for “Un verre de l’eau” and he corrected me as there was no need for a definite article. But maybe there was?
    I think I understand. “The water” is incomplete, and leaves something open to my imagination.


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