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.
