The Glass Blower Poem by Matt Mooney

In St.Galmier by the River Rhone,
With its mineral waters of renown,
In an atelier you'll see a souffleur.

The furnace heat is orange bright,
So hot it has to be before he can
With taps and turns on his bench
Mould the sand on a magic wand
To any form in the master's mind.

On the tip of the rod a body round
Builds on its stem to form the base
Of the final glass and its equilibrium.

All circles run round the rod's end;
With his wrist he twists and twirls.
For him it spins into a vase of blue,
Snipped slim like a slender candle:
With its pouting lips and its lily look
It stands up proud of its wily master.