entry picture



Moulded from my own fair hands

At the age of not very old

I still remember the cold, clammy clay

And the satisfying way

It was slice from the workboard

By a length of taut wire


Painted blue and green and red

And glazed with over ardour

So that the glistening sheen

hardened into rivulets

That have the appearance

Of old sneeze


Baked in mysterious

English Martyr ovens

And presented back to us

 A week later

Fully formed

And ugly


It sat in pride of place

On the arm of my dads chair

A veritable Vesuvius

With ash strewn crater

Looking like something

He had expectorated


Despite it’s fire born heritage

It feels cold to the touch

Slimy and repugnant

The remembrance of a deadly habit

It’s discovery reminiscent

Of finding a cancerous lump


So it went in the back of a cupboard

When he died

Hidden in shame

At my part in his passing

Brought out only when

Guests would tread his path


But I bore it

Gave it

Took pride in

His use of it

And for nothing else

I kept it


And when I’m gone

And some future archaeologist

Ponders this primitive art

He may find some beauty

In its simple existence

In its gaudy endurance

ash trayday 12dull thing you keepNaPoWriMo 2019parents pride

◄ Grit

The Turning Of The Tide ►


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