Poems - Issue 7
on breaking our daughter's salt bowl
It was firm and strong,
confidently thrown, made by hands
which understand what beauty feels like
as it grows.
She said the joy was in its making.
For me, the joy was in the seeing of it,
made by hands which will soon pack bags
and leave home.
Pity the broken bowl?
No, says her teacher, Araldite will do the job.
She leans over the humming wheel
in her mind,
cradles the next ball of clay
into the quiet centre of the turning circle,
cool fingers lifting a new bowl
from mute mud into a ringing whole.
In Japan, our daughter tells me,
broken pots are healed with glue infused with gold.
No sorrow lines the forehead of a bowl
when it sees its scars shining in our eyes.