This is another poem that is largely autobiographical.

Morning tea


Waking a little before you

I go downstairs to make tea

as I have for thirty years

in the dark if it’s still winter

and always the same two mugs

the kitchen at rest before the day

one scoop in the pot, milk

and wait to let it brew.


Back upstairs we sit in bed

in the dark if it’s still winter

to sip our morning tea

and ask each other how we’ve slept

and talk about the day

each day in the same way

as if there’d never been another way,

as if it could always be like this.