High Tide



A tea-bag drowned in a plastic
Cupful of hot water
Without sugar or milk. Neat.
Herb dust bubbling mutely,
Slow circles of steam over it.

The smell of mountain huts,
The crisp of an early winter,
Chilled breath,
Mist tightly hugging the pines.

Sipping it.

Touching my lips, melting the dust taste,
Passing playfully through my tongue,
My pallet, rolling towards the throat
And down the gullet '
Drizzling reaches the very deep
Inside of me and my true reality.

Bitterness after the last sip
Drying the tongue.
A writhed pillow in a plastic case '
Dreamless.
Crunching sound.

I grasped the last chance.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...