Waters wait, like unwritten rhymes—
silent, steady, streaming.
Splashed in childhood’s hosepipe laughs,
barefoot sprints across water-war-soaked sidewalks.
Sips of dusk on the back-door steps,
grandpa’s glass half-full stories.
No flavor needed—just the taste
of moments flowing, freely offered.
Purity, allay, life—
water, like the word—okay, maybe a little lime.
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