Dear Reader,
I wrote today's poem after I saw a documentary about Indian women in villages having to walk miles in the sun, to get a pitcher full of water from a well, and then walk home again. I suppose I had never thought about water as something we, in the west, take for granted. I realize now how very precious water is and try to be careful when using it, washing my teeth, for instance, without leaving the tap on. Well I am trying to do my bit...
When we were in Lyme Regis Francis bought a Book of Thankfulness. The idea is that every week you write in it saying what you had been thankful for in the last few days. We have enjoyed writing in it and
thinking about what we are grateful for, and we have found there are so many things. What a life of luxury we lead compared to our fellow human beings in other parts of the world.....
*
From Dorothy Wordsworth's journal, October 1st, 1800, in Grasmere, Westmorland
'A very rainy morning. We walked after dinner to observe the torrents....the lichens are now coming out afresh, I carried home a collection in the afternoon. We had a pleasant conversation about the manners of the rich - avarice, inordinate desires, and the effeminacy, unnaturalness, and the unworthy objects of education......a showery evening. The moonlight lay upon the hills like snow'.
*
Waterhole
As dawn breaks Afia and Tamika
place their pitcher pots
on their heads,
start walking to Potra
many desert miles from home.
The sun scorches, the heat intense,
the girls silent.
Many hours later
at the waterhole
they carefully fill their pots
each drop of water precious.
Wearily they walk home
under a sky full of stars.
I brush my teeth
watch the clear water
stream into the basin
turn on the dishwasher,
the washing machine,
see rain pouring down the drains.
*
Very best wishes, Patricia
No comments:
Post a Comment