There’s this old guy, you see,
And he’s sitting in his back garden with his back against the wall.
He’s basking between radiated and reflected heat:
A late septuagenarian lizard lounging
In a warm September siesta sandwich,
Dozing his dotage, glass in hand,
And wondering whether his life will cast a shadow
On next year’s summer walls.
Head bowed,
Body rumpled as his half-buttoned raglan,
He looks as if he looks at life still
From a ‘glass half full’ perspective.
Even if his glass is statistically far more than half empty,
He would admire the glass,
Always remember when he held the rod,
Turned and spun its molten maw in the furnace
Feeling the fire searing and scorching his fingers and forearms;
Then the magic,
Then the miracle
The Craft the Guild had guarded like a sacrament
As his breath gave birth to his imagination’s Adams and Eves:
Gave them form,
Gave them purpose,
Gave them life –
And in return they had given him his living.
Even empty,
He would always have his children:
Even empty,
He would always have his glass.
