A cuppa tea poem from 2009

I’ve warmed up with a cuppa, and riffled through my old green writing folder…


I used to get up at 6am
  and boil up a pot of tea
 My sister would have plenty of milk
  and my brother loved sugar,
                Quietly stir in a teaspoon,
                                 or two, or three
     Now he has Lupus; systemic,
         and takes Prednisone
                  it's been a year, 2, 3, four.

My father slept in till 10am
      on Saturday mornings,
  and on weekdays I'd take him his tea;
   Black with honey, weak and sweet,
            Quietly sneak, gently place it
                   beside his bed.
          Regular as clockwork,
             He had no need of an extra strong, bitter brew.

Now my father's heart beat;
            irregular, not like clockwork;
      beats a different tune,
  and he has Warfarin,
        regular as clockwork,
              weak and bitter;
               even then it's a strong, bitter brew.

Why do I call my mother every day?
   What do I call her and say?
  I used to ask, "Can I have friends over?"
   and "Can the grandkids come and play?"
       we wait for her to come by bus,
                                 once a year,
                                  (maybe two.)
and my son and daughter
      take turns, bringing me a cup of tea,
   sometimes sugar, sometimes none,
             plenty of milk, or
             black and sweet
I hear them call, "Can I have friends over?"


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