Dublin Sunday Morning

Dublin Sunday Morning, the tea dark as the Liffey itself under cloud, strong as the bells that break the Sabbath hush, steeped to a blackness that is not absence but weight, gravity in the cup. You lift it and it lifts you—though heavy, though iron—because the leaf is muscle, the leaf is earth turned to drink, and with the milk poured in, sudden bloom, sudden softness, like sun parting rain, like the cathedral windows catching a shard of light. And the taste, bitter first, but a bitterness that is honest, that tells you the world as it is: stone streets wet, horses stamping steam, the bread not yet out of the oven. Then comes the warmth spreading, the body wakening, the heart steadying to its work. A tea not for idleness but for endurance, for the day long and gray ahead, for the hands that must labor, for the voice that must sing nonetheless.

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