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