The Potter Poem by ANDREW BLAKEMORE

Within the cobbled back streets of
The town where he was born,
The potter walks the lonely path
Amidst the breaking dawn,
Unto his work shop he arrives
To start another day,
Puts on the light and then he dons
His apron stained with clay.

His arms are strong his chest so broad
A mighty man is he,
And yet his fingers nimble and
So blessed with artistry,
With greying beard and tresses long
His face the years now show,
For lined with age he bears the strain
Of times so long ago.

He opens wide the kiln door where
He fired his work last night,
Now cooled and so he checks each one
To see that all is right,
No cracks or flaws, no chips or scuffs
Perfection to his eye,
Then placed upon the shelf to glaze
He stirs the barreled dye.

With hands so skilled he takes some clay
And spots it on the wheel,
That slowly turns then gathers speed
So deftly he does feel,
His work that he then shapes into
A vase he makes with ease,
For made a thousand times or more
And always seem to please.

He carries on he does not rest
Until his work is done,
While through his dirty window pane
Now shines the morning sun,
Some children watch him working yet
He doesn't seem to mind,
Just waves and smiles then carries on
He musn't fall behind.

All day long he hardly stops
It's all he has in life,
His home is cold and empty since
He lost his dearest wife,
And so he strives from break of dawn
Until the sun does set,
And keeps his mind upon his job
To help him to forget.

When evening comes his work complete
So ends another day,
He yields a sigh and then removes
His apron stained with clay,
Turns off the light and as he leaves
He locks his battered door,
Until tomorrow when again
He shall return once more.