Tea Leave

In tepid drink devoid of taste,
the third today I’ll lay to waste
A ring of tannin has foretold
I’ll not sup tea as I grow old.

In small white cups you fill with brown,
Beneath the rim, and halfway down,
Lurk furtive creatures made of burp,
That bite the lips of those who slurp.

So pour it out and wash the cup
But fetch no more, I’ve given up:
A ring of tannin has foretold
I’ll not sup tea as I grow old.

Pocket

If I should ever have to choose to be

a pocket or a coat, my answer is a pocket, plain.

Oh yes, to wrap the world in warm is fine,

to comfort children caught by snow or storm,

to zip and tuck unhappy souls on luckless roads, no doubt.

But still I think I wouldn’t choose to be a winter coat.

 

Why then, you ask,  a pocket?

 

If  I may catch the crumbs of something good and gone,

contain the angry fist, relax the anxious palm;

if I may hold a handkerchief where precious tears are pressed,

keep safe a favourite glove, or perhaps a letter felt and left;

if I may hold a secret till it’s ready to be spoke,

then a pocket plain and simple would I choose above a coat.

 

 

The Choosing

Angry as a woman ever was—
her file of life a medical lexicon
she left it all behind and plunged into the sea
assaulted by bitter rainfall on her weeping skin
body escaping from confines of wet crumpled clothes
and hair of seaweed falling through galloping waves.

All things come to an end and even pain
with all its earthly wires and strange responsibility
cannot hold us unless we will consent to stay
to keep human vigil for those who choose to swim away.