Tea Philosophy

The kettle's on,
and now we've shot the glow
into each other
on this unexpectedly yellow
spring day - us holding

coats and jumpers
in the shock of its sudden coming -
your undoing
has not wrung colour from grey.
Aside for your bay

window; its neat 6 panes
shearing up purple evening sky
sobering damp rooftops
scaled with slate;
and a forking Cedar making symbolism

with your soft, crescent-moon shoulder
as you roll over and say "it's time
for Coldplay" and snuff all hope of a
future between us. And then
the kettle comes

to a tongue-rolling climax:
its whispering roar, whispering roar
is a spear of light creeping
round a cellar door,
cellar door.