Tea and Poems

A high ceiling in spring,

white with a filigree border

and genteel conversation

floats over earl grey

and the waitress’s apron

rises and falls with her light step;

tea and cakes, spilling cream,

a man with a silly hat and

ill-fitting hand-knit jersey

trying to impress his mother –

or his maiden aunt.

The traffic sings in the street,

rising and dipping to the port,

and the guests sip water heavy

with cinnamon and mint.

Books of poems, Mr Betjeman,

on an old wooden shelf, and

Mr Tuwhare , too,

resting above the creaking floor,

waiting for a gentle hand

to let the words out:

time, gentlemen, for tea

One Responseso far.

  1. I really liked this! You paint a beautiful scene, I can almost hear the teaspoon’s jangle and splash onto saucers and the happy white noise of trivial warbling over scones.

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