Hot Tea

After early mass on Sunday,
My Dad,
Dispensing mugs of scalding hot tea
And a “kiss from Holy God”
To the sleepyheads of the family.
Leaving me a legacy
Of an asbestos mouth –
Hot drinks quaffed and drained
Before ordinary mortals have dared
Take a sip –
And of the mysteries of faith.

A legacy too
Of playing music by ear,
And constructing harmonies
And twiddly bits,
From a man,
Who could pick up a flute,
Or a tin whistle
In his calloused hands
and dance his miner’s fingers,
As nimbly as a Nureyev.

And the songs!
Sacred and secular,
Sung, whistled and hummed,
Accompanying construction
Of Sunday breakfast:-
Fried bread, eggs, bacon,
Black pudding, tinned tomatoes,
Omelettes!
Anything from ‘Faith of Our Fathers’
To ‘Gimme Dat Ding’.

How many dawns did he see
In a working lifetime of early shifts:
Farm, pit, motorway,
Steelworks, building site,
Flour mill?
Unable to lie in,
Even on days off,
High days and holidays.
“What? And miss the best part of the day!”
Our teenage talent for sleeping
Until roused
Incomprehensible.

Told off once,
by ‘The Kerrywoman’
For singing too loud and too early,
He protested wistfully,
“But I want them to get up
And talk to me.”

The legacy of early rising,
I inherited too late.
The dawns shared,
Too few.
And those kisses from Holy God,
Not treasured enough then,
Can no longer be bestowed.

So I raise my mug
Of boiling tea
In apology and acknowledgement.
Thanks, Dad, for everything.
Here’s to you!

copyright Tina Towey 2019