The clock face hands,
Windmill vanes
Desert camel strapped in harness…
To walk around the well.

Each their journey
Circular – at the appointed time
With purpose
Only known to man.

The monotonous tick-tock
Almost parodies the camel’s plod
As dirt and sand feel each bored footfall,
The vanes creak the drive shaft wood.

All to man’s purpose
One, to raise water filled bags
Deep below the earth,
Grind corn or show the hours of day.

Neither, beast nor machine
Know the part they play when…
In one, the empty belly
Strives the undone spring.

Almost, not quite, rhythmic,
Granted hypnotic – the pace plods on
Hours of time breached
On a looped circle in time.

Should man relent
On the hours wasted
By watching his time slip by
Or leave the aqua bounty?

No, let the way of the world
In clever minds and hands
Stay selfish in his cleverness,
Conjure strengths across the lands.

(Mike)