We roll it out between two sticks
to try to keep it even,
work until it’s smooth and cool.
We push the surface into moulds —
mine will be a shallow bowl,
curves seem good for holding loss.
Later in the garden,
where water softly sounds the dusk,
we cut purple hellebores,
leaves of fern and catkin.
Press the bitter grain of spring
firmly patterning the clay.
We throw our grief
on spinning wheels,
drawing up its soft grey form,
do what we can
to keep its shape—
only this is in our hands.
Lauren Thomas is about to complete her MA in Poetry Writing with the Poetry School London and Newcastle University. Her work has appeared most recently in Atrium, Lighthouse, Magma and the The New Welsh Review.
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