A Pot of Tea

The rain falls straight down,
withered leaves turn into themselves
and the clothes-rack drips.
I hear a gutter gurgle, no birds.
The doors across the road are shut,
windows closed.

We talk about tea,
the pot we will buy when we get our own place;
how bergamot, or cinnamon,
will infuse the air.
We talk excitedly, then rest into quiet,
into the sound of drips of rain,
the slowing gurgle.

I notice a jackdaw
fly onto a tree, a leaf fall
onto dark earth.
Listen to a dog bark,
the lake splash.
Winter is not yet here,
but it is clearing a space for itself.

Ion Corcos
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