Letter to Younger Self

The big dreams were carved out by lonely sad people,

And the winners were only ever a matter of perspective.

They said we could expand and connect up worlds,

So we made worlds out of luxuries and the teas

We took from India to improve ourselves -

Now powdered and congealed on shelves

in mass produced cups with hackneyed phrases.

It wasn’t the tea itself but the way it was poured and shared from hand to hand

Whether you put the bag in or after

Or let the bag soak in the milk

Before the water hit the bottom

Or if you splashed a bit on the top -

brown and white melt at the rattle of a teaspoon,

the call of friendship,

the whirlpool of harmony,

the more refined herbal steeping, the slice of fruit

that distinguishes mainland Europe to Britain.

It is not the cup or what is in it but the warm hand

Hot from passing it from one to the next

Or left on a table on a coaster ready for a new hand to be warmed by it.

They don’t tell you that in some years time, out of school,

you would rather a soft hand in yours than a fistful of tea,

or money and bags of pretty things.

A hug is better for the heart

Than a finger on a button watching as productivity grows

Or likes fill your screen –

Yes, you may have achieved something, but ask yourself,

for who and for what?

You might think, lying in your adult cot –

Clutching a hard, plastic object,

Finger on a smooth flat surface

Ready to swipe or hover indifferent

The electrical connections serve as the tendons

To your heart.

Lighting up and fizzing, it’s hard to understand or know

Why you cannot feel the material inside –

And why it has not yet moved your centre.