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...