Liming One (new draft)

As she removes the lid

from a biscuit tin,

the man from Manchester

is standing by the sink.

As she steeps tea

and she stirs sugar,

he hangs about the hallway

flickers in the bathroom.

As she places two cups

and settles back,

like someone returning

from a busy bar,

somewhere in the hallway

a veranda unfolds.

She stirs with a spoon

the view of an ocean.

Talking like breathing

we’re sitting with tea cups,

we’re speaking darjeeling,

earl grey and assam.

I describe the walk

and the stopping for milk,

she conjures umbrellas,

hangs some silk.

And the Rasta from the hills

lights up a spliff,

the man from Edinburgh

wants to move in,

the guy from Bar Roma,

now says, he has a wife,

the teacher from Cambridge

remains oddly quiet.

We wind our talk

across a distant beach,

double back,

read leaves.

We drink tea

cup after cup.

No more dark bars.

No more dark rum.

We drink tea
cup after cup
We lime in her kitchen,

Calypso, with mugs.

We drink tea
and the moon folds up
We kick off our shoes

dance on a rug,


and the Rasta by the kettle,

teacher by the jug

Polly put the kettle on,
Polly put the kettle on,
Polly put the kettle on,
we’ll all have tea.