5.18.12 A Deathly Hill

The bucket was empty, the well was far.

The hill was steep, the crank was stuck.

It took two of them, little hands pushing pulling tugging, before water came up.  Cold, so cold .  And colored brown.  A little muddy, yes.

The grass was wet, the ground had holes.

The sky was dark, they couldn’t see.

He tripped first on a patch of wet mud.  And she came tumbling after.

The water was spilt, it pooled in the mud.

But no one cared, the crying wasn’t for that.

The tears were for the blood that swirled around his broken head.