Darjeeling Darling

‘Cup of tea?’

Please, and make it with loving laughter.

The ease of dusty sweepings I don’t deny,

A bag tossed carelessly into tepid water

And stirred to thickness with sweetened milk.

But are we not New Age tea drinkers, you and I?

‘We are. For you, I will make posh tea.

I will fly to Darjeeling,

Swoop down from an icy ridge,

To alight on a distant continent

Like a crested migrant on a burnished bush.

I will buy a golden packet, neatly folded, tied with string,

From the youngest estate, rare and tender,

And brew for you the choicest summer flush.’

You go.

I fill the kettle, remembering your exquisite flavour.

Yours is a light perfume, your leaves palm-rolled,

Best relished pure.

Beauty is soaked deep into your fabric,

Like tannin on a teacloth.

Will I taste your golden tips, unclouded?

Will I quench my thirst from your tender cups?

Will I drink again your heady muscatel brew,

Scalding my tongue on your boiling heat?

Here’s why you must return with tea in your luggage:

In truth it’s not the first flush, nor the second,

Not even the languid longing of oolong;

But when we age together,

The heart remains young.

Avoiding milk and sugar we will live forever

Cured of all fears,

Guarded by the ceremony of pot and leaves.

The idea for a poem can come from anywhere. On this occasion, it was the extravagant language on a packet of tea.

Andrew Shephard