Sudden image, as if in answer to an unmade prayer

The sphere is gold-and-rose coloured, a rich, vibrant dawn, running a little at the edges like something wet, splattering around the edges, brilliant and forged in light.

The hands that lift it up, with the gold slip running over them, are brown and gentle, warm, dextrous-fingered, familiar with the material. The sphere is set down, flattening out like the sun on the horizon, a haze of clouds extending its light still more as its more fluid parts slide out, rotate away, start to splatter as the wheel begins to spin.

Brown hands shape the sphere, center it, bring it into a cylinder, and start to mould it. Gentle, strong brown hands. The gold seems to fade into the brownness of the clay, but we both know it is there.

Usually He just hums.