Comfort Zone

prints in the water

marked out with brown leaves

scurrying colour into whirlwind swirls

 

I can view it from above or below

hold my breath as it swamps into my mouth and ears

as I sink down to the bottom

gazing at the sides

 

and then it drains away

and all I’m left with is the aftertaste

of being suspended in the amniotic fluid of trees

Tea Hands

My arms are full. I’m exhausted.

When I walk through the door

your smile caresses me

with the warmth of your hands – tea hands,

you would say if it were the other way around –

as you ease the weight away from me

and boil the kettle

to make a brew that will rest my entire body.

An aromatic infusion

We fly up hills and across sprouting fields,

forwards ten years and back a few months,

all the while staying still and linking hands.

 

The roads are curved, never straight,

always interlocking at some distant point.

How many times have we been in this direction

and haven’t noticed?

 

I see us in a cottage

with a workshop made for inventing

and re-inventing.

Mathematical solutions and puzzle pieces

poured into a teapot with pages from a writer’s notebook

and left to brew.

 

The extracts merge together wonderfully,

a full flavour

of the years we’ve experienced in a single cup.

Mirror Pool

The tea in my cup is a mirror pool,

a pensive place of comfort

to gather my thoughts at the end of the day.

 

Why is it so hard to show passion?

To have dreams that are bursting from your body

invisible to everyone but you

and those select few

you trust and take into your heart,

who have no expectations

because they simply enjoy you

being you.

 

Why is it necessary

to fight the urge to fall into those few,

even though they’d catch you without hesitation,

and you’d easily do the same for them?

To see the look that says they will

hold you

if you need it, at any time,

and still not dive?

 

Why is love so difficult to express

in front of others,

to hold hands, touch nose to nose,

have that same solid certainty in our eyes?

None of the passers by care;

half

haven’t even noticed.

But there’s still this poisonous awkwardness

lingering in my bones.

 

I gather my thoughts at the end of the day,

reflecting in a pensive place of comfort:

the mirror pool in my teacup.

Elevenses

Let’s have a catch up.

We’ll sip tea and eat scones with jam

while skipping along the borderline

of countries lost under the seas

and between the stars.

We’ll pick flowers, too.

Nightshade to match your swirling dress,

Foxglove to use as drinking cups –

best not keep it for soup.

We can chart out our own paths

using chalk and chlorophyll

and a compass of needle and cork.

We’ll sing songs heard in seashells

and whisper spells into bottles

to float amongst the sea foam.

We’ve got mail

Would you like some tea

with that milk? You’d say slyly

regarding my pale cuppa,

resting your head idly against the bookcase

searching for the storms.

My mouth would twitch,

flicking between smile and frown.

The window always opened and closed

at that point, seemingly of

its own accord

and a stack of papers would flurry in

to land by our outstretched legs.

What do we have today, then?

You’d muse, lifting a sheet

to your face. Ah, of course;

Ghost Writers. Let’s help them

find their stories, shall we?

And with that, we’d begin.

 

The Teapot Trial

Lined up on the kitchen worktop

are three teapots.

One red.

One blue.

One yellow.

 

In the red

a flame licks the inside,

burning without wick or fuel.

I hold my hand over the spout

where the heat

warms

my purpling fingers.

 

I move to the blue.

Inside that,

a grey cloud swirls around,

pouring rain from the spout.

I gather it up,

wetting my peeling lips.

 

I look to the yellow.

I know what’s inside without touching.

A single seed, freshly sprouted,

waits for me.

I mustn’t touch.

I must touch.

 

If I give in,

I’ll live again.

 

But living

means emotions,

hurts and loves that I can’t control.

 

I’m not ready.

Not yet.

Waves in a teacup

I have this feeling

in my chest.

Like those soapy-water bubbles

you make as a child,

trying to blow the biggest one you can –

a lot of the time,

they pop

before you can release them,

but once or twice

you get one that works.

Proudly, you watch it float away

until you’re not sure

if it’s burst

or simply gone out of sight.

That’s the feeling I have.

It’s warm and cozy;

a squishy memory

you cling to

as long as you can,

snuggled up in a blanket

with a book

and a blissfully hot

cup of jasmine tea,

wishing for nothing more

than that moment to last

for as long as it can.

I don’t have a name

to put to this feeling,

but if I had to choose one,

I think

I’d call it:

hope.