Breaking the Mould

He could tell by its style...
the colour of the clay – trace
its origin, its artist...What
it was used for; to hold sugar,
or tea – rosewater or jam.
The bad chip on its rim –
dropped from careless hands,
painstakingly repaired – given back
its dignity, and a semblance
of its former glory.

To him though, imperfections
made it all the more perfect,
with cerulean blue glaze...
and a moriage enamel dragon
in gold paint, entwining
swirling, white clouds. Held
to the light, a small child’s face
at the very base, impressed
in lithophane.

She says she’s going to bed...
labels him ‘ an obsessive’.
It didn’t used to be the case.
He’d met her at art school
in the days when Potter’s Pink
and Indian Red coursed through
her veins – her life’s blood. But
she’d changed. Hardly picked up
a brush anymore, except
to paint her nails.

He watches her sleeping.
'Peas in a pod', they’d been;
presently though, they went
their separate ways, had done
for years, nevertheless, theirs
was a decent marriage; like pillars
of a temple – separate, and yet
with one common good.

Runs his fingers over her thighs...
her rounded belly, as she half-smiles,
and wonders of what she's dreaming.
Smiles to himself as he remembers
how she loathed those stretch-marks;
tried all sorts of lotions, and pills
to rid herself of them, as his fingertips
trace the silver-tongued lines spoke
of the wonders of life that once it held
in safe-keeping.