Sunday 18 January 2015

A Tea Ceremony

Grandpa once made

tea in this – his stout silvered

pot with chain.

Pouring .Tea

He’d rise at six;

sit sideways on his bed;

grunt, shuffle on well-trained

leather shoes; stand,

spread stiff, blunt-edged fingers

to hold the wall, then

sway along the room,

the landing, grasp the rail

and somehow climb

downstairs, never falling.

 

The kitchen found,

But still half-stunned by sleep,

he’d stop, stare, shaken

by the loss of one last

melted dream, and

scratch his brow.

 

‘Where was I, now?

‘Ah, yes!’

The kettle ready-filled,

he’d concoct a favoured

pitch-dark stew, which

stirred, would smell of tar

and sooty English days

that never saw the light.

 

At last - an emperor again

enthroned - he’d sniff,

half-smile, raise his sceptred cup,

then through night-parched lips

drain his dominion dry.

© Natalie Wood (18 January 2015)

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