It was steam between them no doubt,
Indifferently waiting for a kettle to boil.
She obviously liked her tea.
He saw it in her smile
From the other room –
Lopsided and firm and
Warmed in marmalade windows.
She was the garden lady,
One dog and a candle-lit bathroom.
It’s the strangest thing,
Chrysanthemum and honeysuckle,
Stretching in the night.
Frame by frame,
Green and grey
And chamomile for the harder days.
He never placed that elusive scent of home,
Strongest in the matching plump armchairs.
It tasted, however, of three sugars
And a splash of skimmed milk.