The tea kettle brewing inside the heart….

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There is a secret tea kettle of the mind that

Bubbles away inside every day which boils

Up the brew very close to happiness to border

the darkest gown of some grief or agony that

is blackening, battering and blaming the soul


Has mangled up the hours like a deathly disease

It gloats over you as you try once again to fix it

And fail and fall back into the torpor of atrophy

Then the tea kettle pours out the sugared respite

into tiny little bright red cups and gold tipped

saucers: it could be a movie of Patricia Clarkson on


Netflix, or an ancient P.D. James thriller, with

The addictive Martin Shaw, on You Tube that

You had missed, the orange and black butterfly

That visits the scented creeper on the garden

Wall, the solar water heater surprising you with


Near boiling water for a bath on a cold December

Day and then discovering the better vegetable

Seller who cuts open the tapioca to show you

That it is white, which means it is fresh and you

Can walk past the Rodent who never let you do that!

And before you know it, the night’s dream of the

New baby you found in the back room where some

One had left it, for you to look after, adds to the

Clutter of everyday enchanted sips of tenderness

And you sit down on the garden swing to glimmer!







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