Lorraine Walker Williams
Lorraine Walker Williams


Chai black tea brews in a white mug.
Long shadows cross the porch floor,
Slight breeze sways palm fronds.

I sit, feet up on the hassock,
my arm resting on the intertwined arm
of the wicker rocker, a faded red cushion
beneath me. I sip spice tea infused with
cinnamon, clove, cardamom, ginger.

A lone egret splashes wings in the pond,
birds call along the lake. A small plane
drones in the distance.

About half the Sunday paper read,
I swallow the tea, sharp with lemon
from a native tree leavened by honey
reminds me of tea with a friend
reading poetry.

I remember High Tea, London,
clotted cream, scones, watercress
sandwiches, silver spoons.

None of these as grand as the curve
of the white cup or the hibiscus bloom.
The spice taste lingers, mingles with
the scented breeze— A pesky ant crawls
along the chair…the ant reminds me of

One Hundred Years of Solitude
where at the end jungle reclaims
what man has built, ants overrun

decaying homes, abandoned villages
where once children played,
lovers drew curtains in long shadows,
and a man and a woman shared black tea.

Lorraine Walker Williams

About the poem: Sundays are lazy days, time for reflection when I relax, read the paper and gaze from the porch with a cup of tea. I hope to convey those moments in this poem.
From Split Poems (2014)