Am I to you a teabag
hanging by a thread?
So when the water is boiling hot
You will poor it on my head!
There I'd swing compliant,
stitched into a sack
peering through perforations
Hands tied behind my back!
I'd think 'its rather risky here'
From the bottom of the cup
Is that the kettle singing?
Oh, my time is nearly up!
Of course they always matter,
Mistakes, mishaps, mistrusts.
But I cannot keep a straight face,
until I am dustbin scraps.
Trapped without a mask so cool,
smile outside, love within
I cannot be quenched to golden silence
by scalding bubbling rain.
Perhaps it matters little
perhaps he fears me too,
How fears conceal affection
shake hands, goodnight, thankyou.
Ill emulate Cyrano
The flood is up to my hips
My body perfumes water
dissolved Ill taste his lips.
At last the fragrance finds him
Steam risen from the depths
Swirls accross the surface,
The tang of Lemon Zest.......
A poem about tea........ or is it?
by Helen Purdy
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