A Pot of Gold

An afternoon bricking
Then sealed with mud
First the kindling burning
And the smell of cut wood

The rising of temperature
Slow at the start
A gathering speed
Pushed into the night

At the sun hits the horizon
The air's thick with smoke
A rumbling deep
From the depths of the throat

Hours ache by
As time trudges on
Sleep deprived attenders
Still awake as they long

Flames lick through the bricks
And ashes build in the bourry
The event is fierce
Filled with violence and fury

Reduction is held
The pace keeps on moving
Wood dwindles down
The end is approaching

The outcome is rich
Beauty brought from within
A metallic gold surface
Another pot done again.

27 July 1999
Lyn Anderson

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