The tea pot
It was a scarlet enamel tea pot that is all.
Her place was usually in the galley on the side,
Sometimes visible on the table amongst the charts.
She bravely withstood the buffeting of the waves
Playfully threw her lid from view
Had no preference to the brew
Not impressed by picture card or perforated dividend stamp?
Cared not that she was placed on a tray with crisp white cloth
Cared less that her companions were chipped or misplaced
Not converted by the apostle chrome-plated teaspoons
Delighted in the absence of a fine bone china jug.
During a storm she slopped in a bilge,
But soon retained her dignity on the side again
Only to slide and wedge against the riveted hull
Within her belly, nectar to revive a sickly child, sustain our pa
And sooth our nursing mama.
Not shaken by the child’s first attempt to brew
Not worried by her nakedness when washed and prepared for guests
Almost happy to glow for a while
Before the family came for tea around the pot once more.