The lonely Ciseach

I doubt that anyone will pay me much heed, but I’ll put in writing what happened anyway. It’s not every day you get the chance to talk to a ciseach, to question a jumble of rock and earth and a rust-ing pipe. I’ll keep the background brief; what’s the point explaining if no one will believe me?
Two evenings ago, my brother, Phil, tore past me, a slash hook gripped to near death in his hand, eyes bulging from his head, muttering about fairies over at the drain. I’ll admit that my curiosity got the better of me. Half a handful of minutes later I was standing at the ciseach, admiring my brother’s tidy-up of the area and wondering why I’d stopped visiting such a beautiful spot.
I can’t thank your brother enough, said a tentative voice from the ground at my feet.
I won’t claim to have had steady feet as I descended the steppingstones to the water and peered into the empty gloom of the pipe.
Yes, it’s me the ciseach talking, said the voice, stronger now.
With a trembling hand I pulled my phone from a pocket and asked for permission to record.
Yes, okay, just stay a while¬. Phil nearly dropped dead when I spoke to him.
Now sitting cross-legged on the baked grass at the edge of the crossing I struggled to find another question to ask.
Many’s the bucket you filled here, Tadhg, said the ciseach. But you never come any-more.
Well, we have a well and a pump for the stock now, so there’s no need…My voice trailed off, bizarrely I was afraid of insulting the lonely bridge before me.
It’s alright, I have eyes; I see the beasts drinking from their trough. I always liked to see you and the others coming, but the cattle always left us in an awful state. Back there where they used to drinkwhere Phil fenced offthe dirty devils used to leave their waste in the water. Foul stuff that we had no choice but to endure.
We? I asked, feeling guilty about my family’s long-time persistence with an action that had not seemed like something to give a second thought to until a broadening of our horizons, mixed with new rules, had taught us otherwise.
The water and me. I’m nothing but the skeleton here. My friend down below has to put up with the worst of everything.
Is it still bad for ye?
No, it’s not all bad, but it’s the lack of visitors that I hate. The water doesn’t care; it sees plenty of people on its travels. But I’m stuck here. Apart from Phil and you coming this evening I haven’t had a visitor in months.
The guilt that had started to subside in me rose again.
I’ll come more often, I said. Now, tell me why you never spoke to anyone before now?
Why would I? Wasn’t there always plenty of traffic passing here keeping me company? Horses, machinery, tractors crossing to work the field. Look at it now; it’s nothing but scrub. And little ones, you and others like you screeching in delight as ye dipped yere toes in the water, daring each other to crawl inside me. And if ye didn’t stop here I’d watch ye exploring and picking berries and nuts around the edges. That was enough for me.
My phone buzzeda call to dinner.
Will you speak to me when I come again? I asked, rising reluctantly to my feet.
If you come again, the ciseach said, I won’t need to speak.