Poem

Throwing the World

She places the clay on the centre
of the wheel, starts it spinning, wonders 
if this is how the world began, fashioned

by hands that worked the rock until it was 
soft and supple and pliable as dough.
She guides the clay into a cone, presses

her thumbs in the middle, forms
hills and valleys with a push of her
fingers, carves ridges and canyons

and oceans beds that stretch between
the plates. Light strokes create tall
trees and broad brushes smooth deserts,

while a blade etched here and there
forces mountains to rise and glaciers
to sculpt fjords through the glistening

rock. She rolls small pieces of clay between
her fingers, moulds beasts that roam across 
the wild plains and tropical rainforests.

Her breath is the air through which 
the clay birds fly, riding the currents,
and when she pours her glass

of water across the globe, the seas
fill and fish swim through the gleaming
ocean. Finally she casts crystals

as stars in the darkening sky, and shapes
the moon, waxing gibbous, to shine
her light on the wakening world.