Jim Conwell Enamel
I remember an enamel pot, chipped in places and shaped like a jam jar; grey in colour. and standing on a rock. When I touched it, it was unexpectedly cold. And it hummed as if it was singing. I quickly put it down again, not being sure I liked the song. It was chipped around the bottom as if it had been put down too hard or without care and also round the rim where some hand had let another vessel fall against it in pouring dark liquids. Some night when the moon rode high and someone, only a dark figure, stood there in that field. When I picked it up again It was still cold. But the song now was dull. And it was becoming warmer.