Beyond the potter the ground was covered with an army of his soft mud-coloured vessels, all sorted and arranged in groups which matched, dozen after dozen, far back into the inner shadows of the cave, like some weird and interminable china shop. I gave the old man a cigarette, which he puffed at over his wheel.
In the next cave a white-bearded Aaron was solemnly dipping dishes into a bowl of blue colour and glaze, and placing each with his finger and thumb on a board by him among countless fellows, while with his other hand he gravely swirled the liquid to prevent its setting. Others next him were again cutting out shapes; and three potters were hard at work, one moulding the bodies of pots, another the necks, another the lids, while a fourth put all three together.
And thus they laboured on. Their slippers lay in the mouths of the caves beside their brown jellabs; and the smell of the moist clay and the drip of water up amongst the green fern mixed with the cool air.
Almighty Potter, on whose wheel of blue
The world is fashioned, and is broken too,
Why to the race of men is heaven so dire?
In what, O wheel, have I offended you?
