As I work the pump, the wind heavy
With spits of rain is fraying
The rope of water I'm pumping
It pays itself out like air's afterbirth
At each gulp of the plunger
I am tired of the feeding of stock
Each evening I labour this handle
Half an hour at a time, the cows
Guzzling at bowls in the byre
Before I have topped up the level
They lower it down
They've trailed in again
By the readymade gate
He stuck into the fence: a jingling bedhead
Wired up between posts. It's on its last legs
It does not jingle for joy any more
I am tired of walking about with this plunger
Inside me. God, he plays like a young calf
Gone wild on a rope
Lying or standing won't settle these capers
This gulp in my well
O when I am a gate for myself
Let such wind fray my waters
As scarfs my skirt through my thighs
Stuffs air down my throat