top of page
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.
bottom of page