Pot shot

She didn’t mean to buy up all the pots. But,
in trout-rich Lake Taupo’s reach, that's what
she did. Of course, there’s more to it than that.

She also took a mug, a vase, another
mug, some tiny sheep and an oval mirror.
How the boiler-suited potter charmed my mother,

whose great summer escape was going well,
now she’d ditched the hill-heaped city, and Bill,
for a loaned car and freedom to enthrall

the first dead ringer for Stewart Granger
who came her way. This dishy, clay-baked flinger
of shapes, this pot-thrower with whom to linger

longer than planned: he’d do...They and their shop
panned out. And lately this reflective snap
came to light. It shows things looking up.