A slip of a Girl
She was a mere slip of a girl was our Rose;
a rose by any other name her workmates said,
in by six am, as usual, eyes glazing over at her work bench.
Always SO many cups to gild.
“My cups runneth over” she jokes to Lily her workmate –
who gilds alongside her.
She too has her running joke about “Gilding the Lily“…
And, about poor Rose always being “down in her cups“, and plates, and pots.
All still to be embossed and glossed, and then packed off to them toffs
who never see the tears and toils in their porcelain spoils.
Why would they?
More tea my dear?
By Martin Driscoll
A director of The Worcestershire Literary Festival & Fringe CIC – Litfest
A published short story writer, poet and designer