The Pot Maker
in memory of Amanda Sargent
I see you walking outside the School of English
flaming hair, roll ups, long red cord coat
swishing round the Holy Land
like the brightest Bordeaux
and up here in summer
a moth seeding jessamine and jade
By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept.
Hearing you talk in the stale light of a Belfast bar
I should not have been surprised
the sharpest theorist on the block
climbed derelict heights
in a northwest night
teenager out alone
with a throat full as the dune larks
reading Keats’s Great Odes to a seminar of stars. .
It was late this afternoon when your sister called
a child when you were taking a First
she said in two years
you would be the younger
your nearly new signature
a lake of blue ferns
glazing dreams drawn from the very earth herself.
I told of searching the stratosphere for your name
conjuring it on some serious dust cover
rather than clay
let lead the way
like a spell falling
beyond demand, effort, absolute plan
of crazing grazed by dark geese or gazelle
each a one off taken from the kiln still glowing hot.
The unpredictable survivor of trial by fire and water
your fragile handmade art
rooted in an autumnal heart
up among these hills
leaving crimson carnations on grey stones
and taking to your memory all the back roads home.
Will their bones remember
being a binary star
out in black
crisscrossed by tracks
of deer and vixen
and the honey eyed hare.
Will their fingers remember
a sky of roots
quilting bone on bone
in a geometry
of curves and groves
grown into down the years.
Will their spines remember
Meath’s giving ground
and will they wait
for the call
of yellow bittern and raven
in their city graves.