Forgotten Clay

Forgotten Clay

 The vases sat in the dim light, their curves softened by dust and time. Once they had been shaped by careful hands, spun from earth and hardened by fire. They had known the weight of fresh blooms and the scent of wildflowers carried in on spring air. They had felt the tender touch of those who arranged them with care. The flowers they held were also delicate echoes of the past. Not vivid with life but curled at the edges, their colour drained to soft pastels of memories dissolving like water into clay. No one came to fill the vases anymore yet they remained on the table for the lives they had once brightened. 

They were not forgotten entirely. Sunlight still found them through the window, warming their chipped surfaces and casting long shadows across the wood. The breeze that slipped through the cracks in the old house rustled the frail stems, stirring the room with hope. They remained not in grandeur, nor in purpose, but in quiet dignity. In their imperfections lay another beauty. In their stillness they held time and the fragile, fleeting grace of things left behind.

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