New verse from Geraldine writer John Keast.

High Tea

A high ceiling in spring,

white with a filigree border

and genteel conversation

floats over earl grey

and the waitress’s apron

rises and falls with her light step;

tea and cakes, spilling cream,

a man with a silly hat and

ill-fitting hand-knit jersey

trying to impress his mother –

or his maiden aunt.

The traffic sings in the street,

rising and dipping to the port,

and the guests sip water heavy

with cinnamon and mint.

A book of poems, Mr Betjeman,

on an old wooden shelf, and

Mr Tuwhare is here, too,

resting above the creaking floor,

waiting for a gentle hand

to let the words out to sing