That blue jug – such a demure
container – “Tea, vicar!”
it cries in its pasty modesty.
It’s cheap, chosen for ‘niceness’,
locked for ever in a colourless
domesticity; no ambition
to step from the suburbs,
to be other than inoffensively useful.
It is what I try to escape from.
But to my daughter it is an heirloom,
a bit of a world where
she knew love and safety;
it connects her.