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. I very much enjoyed this poem. :)

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


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

  4. 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!


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