Important conversations called for tea.
Hands wrapped around a mug,
you were always more prepared to listen
when the steam could be counted on
to fog your glasses
and warm the last of the frost
from your nose.
By the time you’d drank to the dregs
it would be bordering on cold
but still
waste not, want not.
The things left to say
once you’d drained the tea
had to wait.
That was just the way it was,
We spoke a mug at a time
or I did at least.
You were always silent,
stirring the sugar in.
It’s a quick one tonight I’m afraid as I’m trying to pull together a word document of all the poems I’ve written over the last three years. I’ve decided to enter the International Book and Pamphlet Competition hosted by The Poetry Business which requires 20-24 pages of poems. It’s just a matter of finding which ones I actually have the confidence to submit.
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