A dark, dank,
brackish, fungal smell of
river banks; and dying things
drifting deep; and sleeping in the
restlessly slow undertow. Rotating
down and around, into the ever flowing
river's vastness. Slowing at last to rest.
Forming a bed of dead, red-brown clay,
so silently - awaiting the potter's hand
to take, initiate and fatefully shape it.
Create in his charcoal furnace, what?
A thoroughly ingenious, curvaceous,
and graceful; sublimely wasteful,
giant terracotta pot.