Down by the river in Battery Point, you can see the oddest colours just underneath the surface of the water. This of course presents an entirely natural introduction to today's entry in the Saturday Festival of *someone else's* Poetry! Well Water , by Randall Jarrell What a girl called "the dailiness of life" (Adding an errand to your errand. Saying, "Since you're up . . ." Making you a means to A means to a means to) is well water Pumped from an old well at the bottom of the world. The pump you pump the water from is rusty And hard to move and absurd, a squirrel-wheel A sick squirrel turns slowly, through the sunny Inexorable hours. And yet sometimes The wheel turns of its own weight, the rusty Pump pumps over your sweating face the clear Water, cold, so cold! you cup your hands And gulp from them the dailiness of life.