The Pump
As I was listening to the farmer Charlie Grubbe talk
about the old Emery schoolhouse pump
slowly in pieces the memories come back .
In the hot late August afternoon,
when I was picking pears from the farmer’s orchard
and putting them into a wicker basket,
I saw the rusty pump
with its broken wooden base .
Pumping it up and down,
I hear a groan, a drawing sound
from somewhere deep in the earth,
then the sound of rising water
gushing out in spurts.
I cup water in my palms
to taste it,
splash it on my face,
open my eyes through dust
to see again:
the school, the football field
with the sagging uprights,
the grey gravestones leaning
beyond the waving wheat.
Here I’m standing
ten years old again
in the full sunshine,
at the crossroads of Emery.
Laurence Hutchman