The Potter's Room

The walls are cracked and rough and the strangest shade of grey. I push aside the wooden door and inside, I see the wheel is still. On it sits a lump of sagging clay, leaning slightly, full of pure potential. I can  hear him shuffling about behind the door. He waits sometimes for inspiration to tap him lightly on the shoulder. Only then does he begin. Today the clay is waiting and he knows he can't sit back too long and wait. 

Threads of daylight weave through the tiny window and I can see the dust performing its flitting fitful dance. He comes in view, and his hulking shape chases all the dusty bits from their stage. He sits upon the stool and the sunlight from the window forms a halo that rests upon his head. He closes his eyes and wraps his hands around the clay and then he breaths, long and slow and deep like he is drawing breath from all the Gods above. Outside, the church bells ring as his potter's wheel begin to spin.