THE BELFIELD APPRENTICE We have nearly made Belfields ours And to the spin of a potter’s wheel Davie the master-posturer Shows with his hands The shapes he wants to see, Points to the palettes of colours And the thrown jugs. “Aye! The salt glaze rubs the wind Ye see, wi’ the foliage o’ its rim....” And we novices fail To comprehend a word. But the weeks trochle on As Davie gestures, rants And scrawls the blackboard whiles we half-learn it all Wi’ gaping mouths. ‘til one day he announces:- “We are close now To making beautiful things” And sends smoke signals Up the oven chimney, Whilst a faulty pot Crunches like the wheel Of a cart over cracked ice. “Ye see the hert o’ the clay is....... An its baked crust unco brittle.....” These words of admonition, half-heard, Flow over us tidally Like water on the barnacled rocks outside And some wag later says:- “Whaever baked the Maister Must hae thrawn awa’ the mould!” John Lindsay June 2008