We walked to the well, a ways from our house
For sweet water to drink with our meals.
The buckets were heavy, so we’d take a rest
As we struggled back home down the hill.
Sometimes in the summer, we’d splash until wet,
How refreshing that cold water felt!
But then we’d be sorry, cause we’d have to go back
And make another trip to the well.
We had an old dipper made out of tin
It was silver and covered with dents.
We all drank from it, our “common cup,”
To dirty eight glasses didn’t make sense.
The water was always so fresh and so cold:
On hot days, a welcome treat.
Maybe the drawing and hauling of it
Was the reason it tasted so sweet!
copyright © 2006 by moleta ruth mccarter. all rights reserved.
