Tuesday, 5 June 2012

To Potsherds

I wandered lonely in the lab,
Amongst the tubes, clearing the spills
When all at once I saw a bag
Of broken sherds amongst the drills
Beside the bench, beneath the shelves
I guess they won’t extract themselves.
Continuous as the gas that flows,
And dries the samples in their vials,
Wherefore these sherds appear who knows?
It’s like a never-ending trial:
Ten thousand Grooved Ware at a glance,
Am I caught in a bad romance?

From postholes, pits and avenue
From middens, house floors, slots of beams,
There’re always more postsherds to do:
Grit tempered vessels haunt my dreams.
I gazed - and gazed - with little thought
What wealth the sherds to me had brought

For now, whilst at the bench I stand,
Clad in white coat, with pensive stare,
It all makes sense, I understand!
I like you lots, most Grooved of Ware
And now my heart with pleasure fills
The sherds my friends, my secret thrills.



  1. Wow! Did you write this? It's brilliant. My appreciation of groovy pot sherds has reached a whole new level!


  2. I'm glad you sherd that with us . . .

  3. I'll raise a glass of grog to this poem, that you have formed and burnished with many an exotic inclusion, it has true grit. You were obviously fired with enthusiasm and worked without a slip!