To an Old Teapot
Now from the dust of half-forgotten
You rise to haunt me at the year's Spring-
And bring to memory dim imaginings
Of mystic meaning.
No old-time potter handled you, I ween,
Nor yet were you of gold or silver molten;
No Derby stamp, nor Worcester, can be
Nor Royal Doulton.
You never stood to grace the princely
Of monarchs in some Oriental palace.
Your lid is chipped, your chubby side is
As if in malice.
I hesitate to say it, but your spout
Is with unhandsome rivets held together —
Mute witnesses of treatment meted out
In regions nether.
O patient sufferer of many bumps!
I ask it gently — shall the dustbin hold
And will the dust-heap, with its cabbage
At last enfold you?
It ought. And yet with gentle hands I
You with my priceless Delft and Dresden
For sake of one who loved your homely
In days diviner.
More wild weather and Storm Imelda is on her way, hitting us around 6am tomorrow morning apparently. A day of chores. A quick trip to TJs to take her the latest card order - she wanted a walk and I left her on the side of the bog so hope she made it home okay; a long skype with son#2 just back from New Zealand (smitten) and a bit of pootling around.
Today's offering for Derelict Sunday - an ancient teapot resting rather attractively on the top step of a flight of rather nice old stone steps. Thanks to notowennewit for hosting for the last four weeks, and thanks to TMLHereAndThere who's doing the next stint (still marvelling at this sacred spring).
Talking of sacred springs Gennepher is doing an intriguing series on St Winefride's well in which you are still allowed to fully immerse yourself. Don't forget it's IHWM (international Holy Well Month). My good pal Finola has very kindly done a write up about my latest activities on her blog Roaringwater Journal - that orange mac!
Edit: it's Imogen not Imelda!!!