Thanking Harry the Potter

"This sale of all my workmanship
is on is on, please come on in."
He ushered me down to rock-hewn depths
to a darkened room that hinted gloom;
a whispered atmosphere.

"I am a simple potter by trade
but my pots are out of vogue."
The flicker of torches on the walls
made pots and walls near come alive;
belie such humble claims.

"I have but one request to make:
Buy just one pot, and have the lot."
These pots could fit in quite a lot
but how to get them up the steps;
a magic wand appears.

"I went back to my roots, they say
I'm mad, but now the need is back."
I nervously back away in fear.
The room turns round, the pots stand still;
We sway from the centre, he says:

"I'll let you stay and have the lot -
your stay will seem but momentary."
The pots transmute experience
with words and verse sucked through my brain;
they liquefy again.

"The world need words and poetry
my time is here. Stay here a while."
The pots brim over; I ladle out
the iridescent oil of fantasy;
take sips and think slowly.

"Goodbye, take care. Adios. Sod off.
My craft is erstwhile, but made current."
I vaguely note his presence gone,
the osmotic oil leaks from my pen;
string yards and miles of yarns.

"Dear Harry, these pots are full of life;
they overflow. I'll stay, thank you."
Under the dust, the paper gleams,
make still life and parables in poetry;
prosperity can wait a while.