Silver Teapot

Were it not for the silver-plate teapot,

the sky reflected on its creased flank,

you would not know the grave was there.

It is just a bed of pale dirt, seed striking

among the scratchings of a little bird.

This, though, is a fine place to lie;

where any wind makes the trees shout,

where you can hear the river’s swell

and feel the rust on wrought iron.

He lived here all his life –

just across the road.

His was a little house with a tiny porch.

It had no frills, and neither he.

He sought nothing more than sun and food,

a place to lie old his head.

He walked the square section,

thought a garden would be nice.

Not that he bothered.

He did make tea, though.

It was always his hand on the pot.

 

2 thoughts on “Silver Teapot

  1. Thanks, Peter. It’s all true, too. I’ve been a bit remiss in reading the work of others – work pressure – but will find time soon.

  2. I think this is one of your finest portraits yet, John. I find that image of the sky reflected in the ‘creased flank’ of the tea pot uniquely arresting. The way your thought gently and in ever darker shades unfolds the story seems perfectly balanced to this reader. Everything so delicately described as if by a fine inked nib e.g. ‘feeling the rust’:
    This, though, is a fine place to lie;
    where any wind makes the trees shout,
    where you can hear the river’s swell
    and feel the rust on wrought iron.

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