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