Poem: The Pitcher
We could see it sailing by Bobbing on the stream, Polished to a rotund gleam By its wayfaring ablutions. Only for a second, some slim Brown hand Must have relinquished its Hold to the waters, Watching in dismay The self-willed lustre Of Potter’s Clay. ----- --------- ------------- ------------- * (c) Omer Tarin 2002 Orig. published in ''Poetry International'' journal SDSU, San Diego, California, USA