ode to thirty (and teapots)


If years were teapots
and I’d lived thirty
here’s what some would be:

a heavy clay one, purple with golden stars,
I close my eyes and can see it held in my mother’s hands -

a greeny-blue one with a map of the world, and Australia cut off at the handle -

another with swirls and dots, a gift for my tea loving mama,
and years later I would visit the very place in Poland it had been made - 

the Japanese pot painted with dragonflies,
the first that belonged only to me -

a tiny yellow 1950s one with wattle on the lid, enough for two little cups -

there’s the ornate pewter pot, pouring mint tea from height
in all the places we visited in Morocco - 

a beautiful blue and white pot, covered in willow trees
and swallows and mountain side,
carried in my hand luggage to France - 

a brown and green glazed pot Alex found in a paddock covered in earth -

the unbreakable (as yet) enamel pot, pale blue,
which holds tea for guests and sometimes daisies from the garden - 

the stainless steel faithful pot, an enduring wedding present;
who has boiled our water on the stove for nearly ten years -

and the pots I drew in blue ink, one shaped of hair,
another with a garden growing out of it - 

There’s more of course,
so many pots over the years
that filled the cups;
whispers, whimsies,
tears and teabags too - 

The cups of joy, of relief 
post-childbirth sips,
cups of sorrow, farewells, 
new beginnings, regrets -  
the cups of faith
(the runneth over types)
of early mornings,
evenings when everyone is in their beds
(some of the very best)
so many shared with friends,
strangers, kin,
with my husband -
tiny cups of rooibos with my children,

ceylon, oolong, 
lapsang souchong,
bergamot anything,
roasted rice, dandelion roots,
Buddha’s tears,
fresh verbena leaves - 

Ah! If years were teapots 
and I’d lived thirty 
I’d drink to it’s story:
the lessons and the loving,
the pouring out and the filling,
the adventures and the brewing -
Here’s to another thirty...