Old Pots Break Easily

As I watch the slow culmination of my life, I hold my final product.

It's a swan.

The clay curved. A long neck. The pure beauty of the creature in clay form.

A tear trickles down my cheek. I can't help think about what could have been.

Alas, I had to fire the clay. To die, Without a final masterpiece, Is, To die, Without memory.

The tear falls from my cheek, And lands on the white beak of the swan.

I say good bye.

In The Thomple Hill Cemetery there is a stone. It says rest in peace. It says my name. It has my date of birth, And that of my last day.

And just in front of it, Sits a swan, Frozen forever.

Clay will always be clay.