Every morning you
wait, hear my
step
step
step
down the stairs
glimpse the dawn
of the dishwasher door
pulled open.

You, teapot, are
fully alert
lest, by an early morning
misstep
of crack or knock
you are relegated from
‘daily’ to ‘occasional’.

sitting proudly on
your dove blue
tray and blossom-patterned napkin
you listen
to the music of bubble
and steam, the faint
pliff of teabag
dropping
from a short height.

And welcome the
sharp, hot, dark stream
into your
shallow depths.

Oh teapot, how
content you are:
two or three minutes
pondering eternity
full of mystery
and mastery you
brew
nestled in your cosy.

And now, revealed
you relinquish yourself
to tilting, tipping,
teeming with
tea perfection.
Your sidekick
mug and you
a happy
mismatched couple.

A moment’s respite
white porcelain
teapot to consider
your antecedents
your factory provenance
and the luck that brought you
to me.

Another cup?

Teapot?

Note: this poem is from the ‘poetry retreat series’. We read Pablo Neruda’s ‘Ode to the Clothes’ trans. by W Merwin and were asked to write a poem about a familiar object in six minutes.