By Idris Mears

i broke my back today 

shovelling a trench in clay 

and now i know what clods  

we sons of adam are 

lumpy and cloying 

as common as muck 

stuck in the mud sods  

resisting the workman’s spade, 

weighed down with the elemental 

rain that won’t drain away, 

clinging to the soles  

with a dead hand 

needing artisan hands 

to knead us on the slab 

shape us on the wheel 

anoint us with glaze 

fire us in the kiln 

make us useful 

maybe even 

beautiful