The Ram

The blue of his eyes is harebell. Mortality gapes in the craters of his face. Buzzards cry in the Cave of his skull and a cornucopia of lambs is bleating down the Fan of his horns. In him More of October than rose hips and bitter sloes. The wind cries drily down his nostril bones. The amber of his horizontal eye is light on reservoir, raven in winter sky. The sun that creams The buzzard’s belly as she treads air whitens his forehead. Flesh blackens in the scrolls of his Nostrils, something of him lingering in bone corridors catches my throat. Seeking a vessel For blackberries and sloes. -Gillian Clarke (a segment from her poem The Ram)

Glazed Stoneware. 2024

Please be aware, all of H.O.G’s products are handmade. Therefore slight variations will be apparent between each product within its range. No two are identical as might be expected from the mass manufactured market delivered by other companies.