I’d like to write a poem
but the muse has deserted
without asking my permission.
It seems rather careless to wander off like that
leaving blank pages
gaps between words
muddled concepts and broken images
scattered around -
not even enough to make an abstract mosaic.
On a hot summer day
the English kind of tea ceremony
is just what one needs.
There is nothing poetic about it
but the well established rules
that foreigners do not understand
suffice to re-establish
propriety and identity.
All this is quite reassuring,
a kind of compensation for
not being able to write verse,
as if being English
were enough
to make other inadequacies of little account
Perhaps my muse will send a card
with something eloquent
such as
‘wish you were here’
or drop back in for a cuppa
before the pot gets cold.
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