In the quiet shade of yesteryears,
Where childhood dreams reside,
Stands an old water hand pump,
By the path where memories glide.

Its rusty handle, worn and bent,
A relic of days gone by,
Echoes of laughter, whispered tales,
Beneath a summer sky.

With every creak and groan it made,
Life's simple joys were found,
Cool, clear water, gushing forth,
From deep beneath the ground.

We'd gather 'round, our faces bright,
On sunny afternoons,
Drawing liquid treasure,
As cicadas sang their tunes.

Grandfather's stories spun like silk,
As we pumped and played,
Of times when life was slower,
And simpler games were made.

Now, in the heart of busy days,
Those moments softly call,
The old water hand pump's song,
A balm to soothe it all.

For in its gentle, rhythmic flow,
Lie dreams that never fade,
The echoes of a childhood,
In the memories it made.

June 19, 2023
Created by
MarkWaldrop