Tea…

Poetry often reaches into the depths of our souls and pulls out all the dirt and wonder which lingers within; it can spell out the mystery in the confusion that your heart contains; it can pronounce your most moving of thoughts. But it can also be fun. It’s sometimes nice just to write something light and easy. And being British what better thing for me to write about than making a cup of tea?

Tea

Waiting for the kettle to boil.

Nothing else to do.

Just listen to the water,

the pressure,

the riling up of heat.

Bubbles and fuss.

A steamy build up

to a climax of biscuits.

Patience it takes.

Let the bag soak.

Dangle in the darkness

of the murky brown abyss,

leaking lanky streaks and strains

into the water.

Take it out.

Fling it in the bin.

Lucky bin.

Not so lucky now.

It’s cooling down,

it’s looking brown;

it’s brewing, stewing.

Sweeten it up!

A dollop of milk.

Bring it to your lips.

Hot.

But ummmm…..

Seven minutes of extreme serenity.

And the warmth of the mug in your hands.

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