His foot gently treads the pedal
As he sits by his window to the world
A sunny studio ablaze with fine pots
The buzz as the wheel whirled
His concentration was a studied picture
Hunched comfortable on his stool
Starting work very early in the morning and
Finishing quite late as a rule
What was born a lump of cold clay
In his passion transformed with flair
Pliable beauty with fingers of gold
Loving touches massaged with care
Waving lips on bowls, spouted teapots
Vast vases and urns and bread crocks
Plates to hold a feast or hang upon the wall
Enormous vessels to make tasty stock pots
Vessels he cherished and took pure love in creating
One-off items you wouldn't find another like it
A fountain of colours baked and brushed with glaze
A steely eye showed just how delighted
