Some say it is better with a warmed pot,
or with tea leaves through a strainer held
over a bone China cup. A specialist shop
had a bud float in my clear cup unfurled

before my eyes. Expensive and rare sight.
Indulgent, like days of Imperial
splendour when women tea harvester’s plight
long hours, low pay, working was very real.

My dad national service merchantman
mariner kept his life in the loft stored
in old tea chests, plywood box, steel battaned
edges. Brought home carved elephants for the sideboard.

We collect the wild as ornamental.
Domesticate, put on a pedestal.

Thank you to Paul Brookes for this lovely poem. I’m running on tea at the moment, and I love the way this sonnet captures the homeliness and exoticism of tea.