There is nothing quite so civilised
As a cup of hot peppermint tea.
Sweet scented steam curling gently up
From the infused, herb-steeped cup,
The leaves, green-brown, once grew in sunshine
And add warm summer rays to the pot.
Liquid, once unadulterated,
Becomes a crystalline forest green
As clear takes on the clean mint green hue;
Not expected, a darker colour,
Hints of autumn drying, crumbling.
Green. Yet not. Not the green of ice cream,
or paint or artificial coloured
thing labelled erroneously mint.
Mint, mint of plant and scented teacups
Is subtle. It carries reminders
Of summer sun, of autumn, of care,
Of the gleeful anticipation
Of teacups to come. This is what tea,
My tea, my cup of peppermint tea,
Deliciously fragrantly steaming,
Means to me. Carries in its colour.
Shows every time I pour a cup of
Home grown, cultivated, harvested,
Carefully dried, stored, brewed, steeped and poured