
* * *
I blame John Cage;
the constant whir of a generator,
a huge range of porcelain scrapes, dips, taps, drops,
percussive beats,
swash of cloth cleaning utensils,
socks creep over tatami,
water running from spout,
to bowl,
to cup,
to bowl,
trays placed,
knees under cotton-layers,
adjustments of dress,
hands placed in acknowledgment,
drips, plops, gulps, slurps,
thin-metal cup holders against porcelain,
swirling the pot to flavour,
friction of sweetpapers,
crunch of yuzu-sugar sweets,
slight creak of floorboards,
muffled aisatsus below,
screen doors slidden,
explanations of kakemono,
ritual wiping of trays and cups,
nervous/skilled hands stiffen and relax,
teasing flakes from their retainer,
placing back to rest,
soft hands raise to lips,
tiny sips,
liquid drains,
exhalation of breath,
thankyous.
(sounds of a tea ceremony)































































