The ritual, the preferences, constant chatter and warm china; the cacophony of a cafe, mid afternoon. Once reserved for aristocracy, tea is now common place and varied, a social tool for conversation.

In the crook of the pot

The crock, the spout

The hot hot hot

Of water boiled

I submerge the leaves

Clip down the lid

And wait

Lemon slice and sugar

At the ready


When I pour the tea

Mugs overfilled

And hands unsteady


Of alchemy

Camomile’d gold

To raise


And drip into throats

Dry from talking –

We have the handle

To turn this conversation

Bottoms up

And drain to the last

Drop drop drop

No stuttering, no pausing,

Echoes of empty cups



Shared dreams, being somewhere that normally cannot be reached. You and I, we saw a glow in the distance and felt the weight of being watched. Also, tea and pajamas and toast are excellent bed companions, as are you my bear. 


In the dead hours,

When the toast has been


Finely frosting

Crackling sheets

I slip into pajamas

And lay

Chasing trails

Of steam

From last night’s

Cups of tea


You or I might speak,

Speak in our sleep

Of forests

Unseen watchers

And a glow where

The sky and road meet

Beyond dark trees

Somewhere we’ve been



Under the cotton

We’ve striped

Blue and cream


Their leaves of words,

Wakeful, written down;

Close enough to wear,

I remember

And measure up

Gram for gram

What we wore

And what it was like

When we were there

Locked Lips Tell No Lies – Extract 6

It was early August when the heatwave finally caved and gave way to rain. The days were now dulled by rain, rain which pounded insistently on each of the windows of the house, adamant to pool around my feet. When I wouldn’t open the doors, it instead made rivers across the garden – mercurial drops feeding the lake, the almost drowning-place growing larger. I wanted to run across the lawn and look at my reflection, modern day Narcissus carved and grey.

The mirror on the wall in the living room projected my face, flat and strained. I knew it what me who stared out, but couldn’t quite connect my movements with the movements in the frame. The she in the mirror was an imposter, first smiling, then frowning, two seconds delay, two seconds behind. 


From time to time, we have new beginnings that don’t follow the order of time. If we can imagine, we can change, and if we can change for the better, we can stave off the negativity for a while. I’d like to plant a garden, my own space inside the city where I can regain order, colour co-ordinate, border a place where I can sit and think. With the cold months ahead, spring is only a mind’s grasp away. 


Under winter’s thumb, a

Print was left



The leaves unfurled,

Crystal strands paved


The streets bereft

Of New Year’s cold;

The softness of soil bared

Between what is now,

And now what is old


The borders are busy,


Green, purple, gold

Yellow, red;

I take the plunge

And see a garden invented

Amongst urban paths aglow