Amma’s Mother’s Teapot

 It was there on the shelf: mother’s teapot, brown, bellicose and ordinary;

a teapot that watched and presided over the kitchen with its companions; a

black dull twisted poker ready to poke embers, prod hot coals into action

and a tan leather belt.

Belt up, belt him, belt her.

Tea Time. On the chime, down it would come.

At the tick, kettle filled and set to boil,

on the tock, hot water swirled and swished around the

belligerent teapot’s innards

then wooshed down

the sink.

Tick, plink of metal against tin and tea leaves are shovelled

one per person and one for the pot,

tock, boiling water added to black pungent tea leaves,

tick, the lid clinked shut,

tock, content left to mash.

The clink mattered.

Tick, the call to drink;

tock, the clank and plumpf of the faux wood biscuit barrel;

tick, ring and clank of the cups;

tock.

The plain blue chipped cup and solid teapot clink: move with stealth.

The flowered cup and saucer and a gentle lid clink: gossip cautioned.

The blue chipped cup frequently visited the scrubbed Formica table.

The clink mattered.

She would call us; we would drink according to the clink.

Tick, milk slurped from jug to mug;

tock, shushed clinks and two sugars added:

tick, the liquid tar stirred vigorously.

Tock, an interrogation and monosyllabic reply,

tock, each word tested twice,

the outcome dependent on the clink.

Tick, the teapot’s companions looked down from the shelf;

a black dull twisted poker and a tan leather belt. Tock.

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