Vesuvius

 

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