It's almost half past three
time to cosy up for tea
kettle's on the boil to brew
tea for two me and you
with egg and cress or
cucumber sandwiches
with nary a single crust
(they were all donated
to the National Trust)
it's after forty to four
shall I be Mother and pour
I know you know Pekoe
the table's set quite daintily
two for tea you and me
and we can sing my song
'Lapsang Souchong'
I LONG
YOU LONG
WE ALL LONG
FOR OOLONG
unless you're feeling more Darjeeling
darjeeling leaf branch unfurls
coaxes dreams in soft sweet swirls
himalayan breeze
from far eastern seas
sip aromas hidden pearls.
I have a funny feeling.
It is all so unappealing.
The dollar's hit the ceiling.
This may send the markets reeling.
If the markets hit the floor,
Paul says we'll all be poor.
Oh, how beastly! What a bore!
But Peter's not so sure:
"Whenever markets crash,
it's time to make a splash,"
and, as Grandma used to say,
"There'll be another day."
It's time for an excursion,
not for worry but diversion.
Who's for cream cakes and tea in Ealing?
Earl Grey or just Darjeeling?
We'll have to mend our fences
and go easy on expenses.
On this may all agree.
It's always time for tea.
A lot of people ask me how Darjeeling is right now.
This is my answer to everyone.
Darjeeling the Queen of hills
Is going through a lot of pain
Everything is so still
I don’t want to picture again
Peace rally, silent protest
Lathy charge and gun firing
Depleting ration, time of test
Unrest and mourning
Different news everyday
We are foreigners is what they say
Speculations and assessments
A new committee to lead our way
Online posts, articles, announcements
Situation here is degrading everyday
From kids to old, man or woman
Suffering in different ways
No schools or colleges
Cannot gather in one place
Forces deployed everywhere
Carrying arms, guess for self defense
Fear of walking in the streets
Can’t sleep properly at night
New morning, new plans
To make Darjeeling Gorkhaland.
Storm is brewing outside,
lightening striking the ground
with burning white fingers.
Demanding attention with crackling
thunder sound.
While inside past the rain stained
window panes is brewing a
pot of Darjeeling tea.
Soothing is the golden liquid
as it warms me from this
dreary lonesome storm day.
Clouds empting their tears in
the streams of rain droplets.
Reminds me of the snippets
of memories of you.
Sipping alone this cup of
Darjeeling tea missing the one
I call darling and a single tear
splashes into the liquid brew.
Echoes a silent thunder within
my soul.
The dawn purloined by a shadowed thief,
in the kitchen morning blues were stealing,
across the sprawl of formica grief
with hot buttered daybreak unappealing.
Perforations flooded to slake the thirst,
and down on thermoplastic, kneeling,
a hot Hail Mary brewed and burst
and spiderweb cracked the ceiling.
The chain mail pot spilled a stain of toffee
and dreams died once more with feeling,
rats in the walls tapped a preference for coffee
with the legend: “Move over, Darjeeling.”
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