The Potters (Poetry)

They sit in sunlight, easy in their chairs,
their open workshop in the loft above -
a dusty space piled high with crafted wares -
the cup and saucer offspring of their love.

Encrusted wheels stopped spinning, just for now -
a coffee break time rest for clay-streaked hands
contented in their industry, but how
they make a living no one understands.

Around them, pots and bowls at random stacked,
and all unpriced - not eager to be sold -
their glazes individual - shades unmatched
and mellowing, their sell-by dates untold.

The potters chat and sip, and chat some more -
he's t-shirted, she's denim dungareed -
they glanced as we went trooping through their door -
we culture-vultures looking for a feed.

But they're hardly bothered - show no urge to leave
their sunlit spot - these artisans at play,
creativity must fuel the life they lead -
we breathe its dust and quietly creep away.