it is three a.m. here and the unseasonable cold has etched itself onto the knobby bones of my spine and eats voraciously at the callous of bone and metal that now suffices as my lower left leg...
in answer, i sit in front of the newly stoked fire, as close as i can without becoming fuel and await the painkillers sweet surcease.
i drink russian caravan tea and as always, it draws my thoughts to you.
the time spent with cup in hand and eyes full of laughter. the way you rolled each teabag up into a neat little parcel...
and those times of ceremony, birthdays and big announcements.
when the tealeaf was allowed to swirl joyously and swim in the squat blue teapot, releasing the aroma of a gypsy campfire... all rowdy, with celebration and then served with the orange and ginger cake, (so **** good)of which, i never did get the recipe.
always, the tea, served in fine bone china the tea, visible through the white translucent pottery.. and we still, playing at being, civilised and grown up...
the tears slide, gently,down my cheeks to fall and be comsumed by the warm hearth... as the gypsy songs fade
and i do not know, whether, it is from the pain or sad and grasping grief, that they come... but they come.