by Roger Vickery

Once this Smythesdale block,
for three seasons of the year,
was rain piddly, soft-loamed country.
So despite its niggardly patches of green,
Jacob from Devon felt its pull.

He bought a pub called The Banner
of War, although he loathed the way
it leeched the poor. He sank a deep well
that never ran dry and promised
his chucking patrons the cool water

it gave would put any Baden-Baden spa
to shame. Guilt got the better of Jacob.
He surrendered his lease on the Banner
and made the old war horse his home.
From then on he farmed a pebbly block.

But old Jacob slept at night.
When my mother was battling cancer
in her throat she begged me to drive
along the Smythesdale Road and bring
her back a flagon from Grandpa Jacob’s well.

The Banner land is dry and ruptured
now. Creeks and dams that never failed
are cooking in the sun. Yet Jacob’s well
still stands and the people living there
swear its cool water is heavenly sent.