Crock

The Crock

In the kitchen’s quiet corner stands a crock—
A sturdy earthen jar, its surface speckled brown,
Its glaze a humble, earthy hue, a modest stock
That has held the seasons’ bounty, turned and turned around.

Grandma’s hands would ladle ruby jam inside,
Stirring slowly, scent of berries filling air,
The crock would sigh, a soft, contented pride,
As sugar‑kissed fruit settled, beyond compare.

When winter’s chill crept through the sash,
The crock turned guardian of pickled beet and brine,
Its lid— a cloth‑bound seal— kept crisp and fresh,
A tangy treasure, sharp as wit, a taste divine.

Now empty, it sits upon the shelf, a silent friend,
Its curves recalling laughter, stories, tea, and toast,
A humble vessel, worn yet lovingly tended,
In British kitchens, where the simple things are most.