THE POT TER THE potter kneads the stubborn clay,
Binding it into unity ; Scatters water, kneads again To mollify the obdurate grain And tame and temper to command Of dreaming mind and shaping hand ; Then spins the wheel with treadling foot Till rhythm inform the formless clot ; Then downwards thrusts a fist to bore A hollow in the solid core.
And as a lily-bulb awakes In the warm soil of spring, so breaks The whirling clot to life and sense And the swift circumference Grows into a rising rim That the cunning fingers guide and slim, Fashion and shape, within, without ; And the walls narrow, bulge and sprout Upwards, till the crowning lip Is smoothed by thumb and finger-tip.
Foot and wheel Fall slow, fall still ; Work is ended, the clay is wrought To image of the potter's thought.
MARTIN ARMSTRONG.
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