Native Clay

Oct 31 2017

I wrap my hands

around the heavy mug,

strong black coffee, steaming hot.

Its thick ceramic walls

are warm to the bone.

Its weight is reassuring,

an anchor

in the hurly-burly of days.

Not the drowning kind, that drags you under,

but the kind that keeps you moored;

ship-shape and snug

in your harbour of home.

Made of earthenware, it is unpretentious;

the stuff of peasants,

grounded

in the land they work.

Native clay, roughly dug

from barren hillsides, damp with fog,

or lowland bogs

of stagnant marsh.

Perhaps, if I drank tea

it would come in translucent porcelain

pinched between finger-and-thumb.

Fine bone china

with its high-pitched ring,

like a thin-skinned aristocrat

bled of sun.

While my ceramic mug

emits a dull round note,

a sturdy rustic

soundly struck.

Its thick rim

feels generous, and welcoming.

Its glaze is matte, its pattern plain,

like a straight-speaker

who says what he means.

No gold leaf, or whimsical creatures,

no intricate patterns

painted by hand.

While inside, black arabica

has left a dark brown stain.

I know someday

it will be dropped,

shattering against hard ceramic tile.

In like vs like

its glorious weight

will be its own undoing.

The lamentable end

of a fine old friend, a loyal vessel;

left

in sharp-edged shards

in a pool of black,

cooling as it spreads.