Tea At Cae-Glas
I often stop here,
lean on the gate, and stare
towards where once we had our tea,
one hot day in a long-ago summer.
It was July, I remember.
The sun burning.
The hay in raised swathes, brittling with heat.
“It will be ready tomorrow, “you said.
We sat under the tall hedge.
I poured tea from the small can.
Its sweetness could not disguise
the hint of metal on my tongue.
Nothing much happened.
But I remember how I noticed
the ripened seeds nestling
in the sweaty groove of skin
between hairline and collar.
And as you raised the cup to your lips,
a butterefly hovered, and landed on your hand
and, trembling, closed its wings
and fed on your nectar,
as though you were the sweetest flower.
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