Tea is quiet and our thirst for tea is never far from our craving for beauty. James Norwood Pratt

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Mairi bheag

The moon and me

Some nights ago the moon took a cup of tea with me;
I brought two china cups, a teapot in a cosy, half a pack of McVitie’s,

a heart to brim and a chin to wag, myself,

a blanket with the label coming off,

all the small beauties of an impromptu picnic.

We threw the blanket over my garden wall,

then each cocked a leg over like Egyptian camel-riders do,

swinging our free foot in a childish chord, shy, expressing fellowship.
I shine by another’s light, said the moon.
So do I, said I, being in love. While that sank in we flipped pebbles
into the nearby pool, watched them sink in too,
their ripples making the chorus of starlight dissonant;
each of us was reluctant to break the mute surface further,
and we let our voices still as the pool calmed.
Eventually morning hushed even our thoughts,
an apricot sky opening across our line of sight,
and the moon yawned, let’s do this again tomorrow.

 

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