NeuroDivine

There are grand liturgies in cathedrals, and there are quieter ones at kitchen tables. Ritual of the Evening Tea was written out of that smaller sanctuary—the hum of the kettle, the red box of Thompson’s on the counter, the amber pour into a waiting cup.

In the simple making of tea, I find steadiness, warmth, and a homely sacrament: a faithful ritual by which the day begins anew.

Ritual of the evening tea

Evening office of porcelain

The kettle hums its rising song,
A silver‑throated plea;
It gathers warmth to carry on
The making of my tea.

I warm the waiting pot with care,
Its clay a gentle host;
The swirling water whispers there
Like blessings from a ghost.

From Belfast’s box I choose the bag—
Thompson’s, both strong and bright;
Its paper crinkles like a flag
Raised proudly to the light.

I set it in the pot to steep,
A quiet, fragrant prayer;
The minutes wander soft and deep
As comfort fills the air.

A drop of milk—well, maybe more—
I’m still a child, you see;
A spoon of sugar follows, for
It sweetens life for me.

Then poured into my waiting cup,
The amber stream runs free;
A homely sacrament held up—
The evening’s gift to me.

And as I sip, the world grows kind,
Its edges soft and true;
For in this faithful ritual 
The day begins anew.