Tepid vessel I drank from whence steam rose
Better to be enjoyed hot than so cold.
Ginger, cloves in char, lost, spiced hearts froze,
Spent, stewing, lukewarm, yet, able to scold.
Spite may not have told me to warm the pot,
It left me taught, straining through fingers; slip
Beholding beauty, keen to be forgot
Hot kettle pot no handle; hard to grip.
Yet, grateful I was to brew among rays,
Camomile shot like smack into my veins.
I drank from that hit stained cup for days,
Cooling heated surprise; against my grains.
Oh spoon flicked bag, with reason to shout
Cast out from tar, ‘to a fountain of doubt.

H.Math