Put the Kettle On

Will there ever come a time

When a steaming mug of tea — a “cuppa”

Piping hot and sweet and with a splash of milk

Does not make me remember the warmth of my mother in law’s home?

The smell of a peat fire and the memory of her poppy-patterned teacups (and coasters, and napkins, and saucers)

Tea was the way she showed me I was welcome

Tea was part of morning, noon, and night, the cure for jet lag, and the way to conversation

Tea is love in a British house

And I’ll never cross her threshold again

Never be welcomed off the curb into a home that isn’t mine

Never have my hand affectionately patted by a mother who cares, who tries to understand me

Never hear the chatter over the tv which was always on and drove me crazy

That woman was spun from pure love

With a collection of elephant decorations and red poppies

And now I seek that missing mother on a winter morning

With a cuppa, piping hot and sweet and with a splash of milk

The way she made it for me