There’s a tea shop at the end of my road.
It serves tea everyday,
Has done so for years.
It’s furnished with oak tables,
Mustard painted brick walls,
Beams across the celling
And has tea cups,
With tiny painted flowers,
Like little pieces of painted embroidery,
Lining the shelves above the counter.
The chairs are mismatched,
Some made from straight lines,
Others more elaborate curves.
It’s warm and familiar
And always serving tea.
It’s owned by a husband and wife,
And they do not avoid the task of boiling the kettle,
Especially not if its for one of the regulars.
I can see the smile lines around their mouths,
And next to their eyes.
It’s a beautiful reminder of how real they are,
How many years they’ve spent smiling.
They’re warm and familiar,
And always serving tea.
I dread the day the tea stops being served.
It’s constants like this
That we yearn for,
Because it’s more than just tea isn’t it?
It’s warmth and familiarity,
The stability of
Always serving tea.