Clay is the matter of the week

Clay pots, clay vases, I have a clay streak

Shatters, shards and shambles all

Make for a prickly free-for-all

 

Intentions good or bad: no matter

Can the weather get any wetter?

Can the whisky get anymore rye?

Can the wine taste any less dry?

 

The Earth is reddish-brown and thus

Repairing ceramics without fuzz

Becomes an art of its own

The footprints are homegrown

 

The chant of silent monks

So many voices: goose bumps

All in synchronized silence

Mute, yet the effect of sirens

 

Clay feet, clay hood, it’s crumbling, all

Let’s mount a last defence before the fall

Soldiers of clay, an impressive army

Lost as in war, in the field of barley

 

 

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