Showing posts with label Special Tea. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Special Tea. Show all posts
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Friday, July 08, 2011
Special Tea by Kate Toon
I’ve always liked a tea; it’s my favourite by far.
And not those nasty tea bags, but tea leaves from a jar.
Tea smooths out all the creases and eases all the joints.
It’s better than that reiki, for soothing pressure points.
I’m not that keen on coffee, I’ve never liked the taste.
And three dollars for a latte, well that seems like such a waste.
Jack loved a nice hot cuppa, with a sugar stirred just right.
He’d sit and watch his program, supping tea most every night.
I was taking him a mug, when I found him that cold day.
I dropped it from the shock, and the biscuits, and the tray.
He was lying on his back with his feet in the rose bed.
Starring up at the big sky, and I knew that he was dead.
When the ambulance men came, I offered my special tea.
They were gentle with my Jack and very sweet to me.
The woman from the parlour said she wanted hers with skim.
Did I want the coffin open, so folk could stare at him?
I didn’t like her manner nor the tattoo on her knee.
I offered her a biscuit and watched her eat all three.
I had tea served at the wake; there were some that wanted wine.
I didn’t think that that was right, tea suited Jack just fine.
I often think about them ladies, picking tea in India.
And wonder if they think of me, with my feet up in Jack’s chair.
When I’m drinking a nice cuppa, stirring my biscuit round,
I remember my poor Jack, lying cold under the ground.
I hope that he’s in heaven, dunking biscuits just like me.
On a brown sea of satisfaction, an eternity of tea.
I’ve always liked a tea; it’s my favourite by far.
And not those nasty tea bags, but tea leaves from a jar.
Tea smooths out all the creases and eases all the joints.
It’s better than that reiki, for soothing pressure points.
I’m not that keen on coffee, I’ve never liked the taste.
And three dollars for a latte, well that seems like such a waste.
Jack loved a nice hot cuppa, with a sugar stirred just right.
He’d sit and watch his program, supping tea most every night.
I was taking him a mug, when I found him that cold day.
I dropped it from the shock, and the biscuits, and the tray.
He was lying on his back with his feet in the rose bed.
Starring up at the big sky, and I knew that he was dead.
When the ambulance men came, I offered my special tea.
They were gentle with my Jack and very sweet to me.
The woman from the parlour said she wanted hers with skim.
Did I want the coffin open, so folk could stare at him?
I didn’t like her manner nor the tattoo on her knee.
I offered her a biscuit and watched her eat all three.
I had tea served at the wake; there were some that wanted wine.
I didn’t think that that was right, tea suited Jack just fine.
I often think about them ladies, picking tea in India.
And wonder if they think of me, with my feet up in Jack’s chair.
When I’m drinking a nice cuppa, stirring my biscuit round,
I remember my poor Jack, lying cold under the ground.
I hope that he’s in heaven, dunking biscuits just like me.
On a brown sea of satisfaction, an eternity of tea.
Monday, July 04, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
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