Was it them bubble colours
on the outside,
mellow summer beckoned
cold under the sheets
palm to your *****

Speaking lost in a language
of memories, welling up
genie-like finger tiptoeing
on the handle

or how tea stained the corners?
your eyes, lined black

distant bylane of long forgotten
when in rain we stopped by
porcelain, hands
clay-holding kiln-heated

fragrant vapour rising
morning in the chocolate cup

was it your lips that I
longed to find on the edges?

four seasons, etched
in the corrugations
that bore the wash-marks of time

broken - now lost, forgotten
the polka dots cup