Cup Of Work


Rings in a tree
have nothing on the rings in a cup of tea.
Golden, yellow tan lines
that stretch around
in millimetre, centimetre bands.
And thick ones say where you left a sip
others say where you fell and tripped;
and what trickles down is an amber drip
leading from the mouth, the puddle,
moisture's muddle on cup ring lip.
Red lipstick, not mine,
traces along porcelain’s line-
a delicate dance spoiled by ‘Yorkshire Gold:
A Free Caddy Today’, but still love persists
and now the red lipstick lips are mine to kiss,
forever more.