by abracadabra   Oct 26, 2018

For some, it starts with tea.
Tea slows you. You wait
for the kettle, you wait for
the brew. You wait for it to cool.
You sit. You sip.

Then, other things creep in.
Stock pots, Egyptian cotton.
Fabric softeners. Slippers.

One day, you look up at
a clear morning sky and think,
"It's a lovely day
to do the washing."

You know, then, you'll
never be the same again.
You are a tyre and the air
has escaped somehow, it
had been escaping all along.
No pressure, no heat,
no grind left in you.

You are soft rubber, now.
Now, you swing under trees,
giving rides to children.
You are a round bed
for an old dog.

Now, you lie flat under the sun,
filled with potato flowers,

dreaming of your next cup of tea.


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Latest Comments

  • 2 years ago

    by ddavidd

    It is what motherhood perhaps does to people. I told you to read those damn books. wink wink as Illumenoty would say :) :)
    Your language is perfect as always and real. You never glamorize unless it is absolutely necessary. But if it comes, you are not unfamiliar with it.
    Though one major problem, you need to write more poetry. And sign in more often now that I am back!!