
The Water Tower
                                                             If a drilling rig clanked inland
and made a stand
in some corner of a barley field - 
its elephant legs 
   and pendulous cable-guts
cleaned up and bleached and thinned
by the massage of a summer wind 
   to four stocky struts,
its platform also stripped
to a whitewashed cell 
   with eyes turned everywhere at once -
if such a thing were possible
or worth imagining,
this water tower would be the best result.
Or maybe it dropped in from outer space.
   Or then again maybe
its white and height are really like
a lighthouse that the sea
shrank back from then forgot. 
That doesn't matter any more.
What does is how,
some forty years ago and recently 
   arrived to settle hereabouts, 
   I made this tower the furthest
   fixed point of a walk 
   and stood where I am now,
four-square inside the circle
   of its influence, and thought 
   these fields of silver-whiskered barley, 
   dog-rose hedges, gravel lanes
   ash- and beech-tree spinnies 
   where the roe-deer live their secret lives, 
   would never seem so nearly
   elements which made a grand design 
   if not for this: incomprehensible 
   and silent at the heart of things.
   Except the silence broke. 
   It's over there! that's what I heard - 
   a joke against the ear
   as if a bird had spoken, or the air 
   rubbed hard enough against itself 
   to squeak - a joke
   I put to rest by saying carefully: 
   there must be men at work 
   inside the tower. It's over there!
   The same words tumbled down again, 
   by which I understood I must be due 
   for home,
   so barely heard them as I made my way 
   along those gravel lanes. 
   These gravel lanes, I mean -
   the same today as then, although
   I'm killing time in just a visit now, 
   not life at home
   and what was over there 
   I reached and passed 
   and moved away from years ago,
   and still can't see - as like the wind 
   parading through the barley 
   while I leave the shadow of the tower
   and finish here
   as anything: a single cat's paw 
   dabbing gingerly one minute,
   then a solid blow 
   which batters down the heads so far 
   I think they won't recover.
• Commissioned by the BBC as part of Poetry Proms, a new series broadcast on Radio 3 during the interval of every Wednesday's Prom.
Andrew Motion photo © Antonio Olmos    
