The Pottery

The Pottery


It’s just a wooden chalet.

Nothing special, you’d suppose.

There were some who were sceptics.

I was never one of those.

I don’t subscribe to negatives.

My glass is always full.

‘It can’t be done’s anathema;

A red rag to a bull.

It took a while to figure it:

What with it we should do.

I didn’t want a glory hole.

For things whose use was through.

Eventually I sussed it.

What more could there be to say?

It would become my office;

Yes, my secret hideaway.

Well, it’s not very secret.

For it has a lovely sign,

And doubles as a bedroom.

But it’s definitely mine.

My husband has his workshop.

He spends hours fiddling there.

And now I write my poetry

From my computer chair.

A little Rimsky Korsakov

Drifts from the radiogram

And soothes the inner reaches.

It’s just lovely where I am.


©Ruth Twyman Lockyer April 2014


Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.