Home is an ancient olive grove
Where pots pile high to age under a harsh Cretan sun.
Some sit upright as if silently guarding the island’s labyrinth
Whilst others lie exhausted like flies after the rains
Discarded like old toys
Tossed on a heap. Forgotten.
Refined shaped clay.
Fired baked earth.
A treasury of terracotta.
© 2013 Francesca Muir
