Water

This long summer with the oily tips
of lemon trees curling like copper shavings,
I'm getting to know our poço

well. As the valley turns sepia,
and olive trees sharpen their knives,
and the blue gums are shoals of silver fish,

I draw on its quick secrets. At noon,
the shutter thrown back, sunlight
arrows down the green whitewash

to a shimmering, infinitely
beckoning circle and beyond
to water snake flashes in an abyss

impossible to climb from.
Subsisting attuned to a well,
watching the trees breathe, drinking

in birdsong's a throwback
to develop, so
picture me, with my native off-spin,

bowling a plastic bucket to shatter
my face framed in the mirrored
hatch and haul miracle

draughts earth-wards, well
aware if it doesn't flow,
I'm not working hard enough.

Copyright © 2003 Landeg White All rights reserved
from Where the Angolans Are Playing Football
Parthian Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission