A bit of bush doggerel for a job I have to get done…

I sit by the fountain on New Year’s Day;
the bricks shimmer and shine in burning heat.
Through the parched bowls the leaves swirl and sway;
no streams of water – the pump is beat!

Beneath the cover the water is brackish;
the pump underneath needs tradesman’s skill.
Although the still depths are cold and blackish,
I plunge down my arm – and, Oh! What a thrill!

The church built the fount six years past –
a feature for the courtyard – so we were told.
With garden seat and plants that last,
‘twas a place for resting for young and old.

And so it happened – the fount became a feature,
the running waters a delight to behold.
Not only people, but every bird and creature
rested and played by the streams of gold.

Shoppers passing,  old folk sitting,
mums with toddlers seeking distraction,
school kids massing, matriarchs knitting –
the ecclesiastic fountain gave strong attraction!

Three bowls gushing, an old man musing:
“Surely the Trinity!” pondered he with alarm.
A lone one sitting at midnight perusing
the sights of bubbling, the heart’s good balm.

In times of trouble, the fount gave solace,
Remember the tribute to Van Tuong Nguyen?
The waters yearn to resume their promise.
Let’s replace the pump and begin again.

I sit by the fountain on New Year’s Day;
the bricks shimmer and shine in burning heat.
The dented bowls and debris clamour to say
“Live streams again will return a good treat. “