by Lizzie Prudence
Wedgwood is a potaholics dream,
this museum a testament
to hours of tireless testing, mixing
firing, adjusting, believing
in the perfect green.
These cauliflower pots portray much truth.
They conjure up allotments,
steaming Sunday roasts.
My lifelong love of pots began quite early
with my mother, browsing china shops.
When she died, no chance
to save her things.
Strangers came at my father’s call
to take the stuff away.
I didn’t want the tea set she laid out
as a treat, then never used.
He’d hardly swallowed that first sip
before a quick dismissal from sneering lips.
‘Who would buy a teacup its insides
glazed in green. It ruins the tea.’
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