Yew Beaker with Berries

Description

Cosy and elegant handmade beaker with simple sgraffito yew leaf designs and red berries. Perfect for coffee, wine, water or whatever your favourite drink is. These beakers are fine for hot drinks but be aware they get hot! I also do mugs with handles so check them out if you prefer a handled vessel.

The yew tree is one of the longest-lived native species in Europe. Here in the UK it’s often found in churchyards and was traditionally the wood from which English long bows were made. It has bright red berries, the seeds of which are highly toxic.

These beakers are brown satin matt temmoku glaze inside and out into which I have carved a simple yew leaf design. These beaker also have splashes of red reminiscent of yew berries  The beakers are made of a white stoneware clay which is visible on the base and in the lines of the leaves. They are single fired.

Roughly  10 cm tall, 7-7.5 cm diameter.

Please note all of my work is handmade by me in my garden studio. There will be slight variations in shapes, glaze colour and patterns but all within a theme. I encourage the slight unpredictability and fluctuations and delight in mismatched sets. Each piece is unique.

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,
Which to this day stands single, in the midst
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:
Not loathe to furnish weapons for the Bands
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched
To Scotland’s heaths; or those that crossed the sea
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
Of vast circumference and gloom profound
This solitary Tree! -a living thing
Produced too slowly ever to decay;
Of form and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note
Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;
Huge trunks! -and each particular trunk a growth
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and inveteratley convolved, –
Nor uninformed with Fantasy, and looks
That threaten the profane; -a pillared shade,
Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,
By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged
Perennially -beneath whose sable roof
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked
With unrejoicing berries -ghostly Shapes
May meet at noontide: Fear and trembling Hope,
Silence and Foresight, Death the Skeleton
And Time the Shadow; there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple scattered o’er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship; or in mute repose
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood
Murmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves.

– William Wordsworth