Guardian Poetry Workshop a-go-go

Hand-turned bowl

The conservatory is cold, he says. Too cold for hands
half there from the toil of years that have to manage
still to turn this wood. Once done it represents something
hard to grasp and is the perfect shape for that. It is felt-
bottomed and well finished; everything is true
about the shapes it makes between my own plump fingers.

Every other block of wood holds onto its potential
nut bowl, gathers dust to its damp in the spider-corners
of the conservatory. Each swells and cracks with
the progression of rain. It takes the expense
of an extractor fan to make this bowl the last.
It is stocky and smooth with my earrings in it.