Black Tea

by Cindy Kurukaanga

Her morning ritual is to nestle
into her tumbledown chairwith a steaming cup of tea.
Through the bay windowa mother watches her kinder garden.
She traces branches acrossthe back of hands that dug abundance
into broody marl, charged earthwith buddings, nursed slips to full plumage.

She reaches for her cup,
secateurs clip brittle breath,sharpen with each stroke on her spine.
The faithful workhorse that tookthe strain of tilling over the barren,
tending fruit from the sterile,carrying child size bundles.

She steeps in fecund bliss
until her light is drawn.

Raising its hands to heaven,
the grass surrenders to grief,the trees lament, softly weep their leaves.
Mascara runs, smudges window panes,the sparrows transpose their song
to a minor key. Adornedin a mourning dress, the tea
is verdant in funereal black.

Cindy Kurukaanga (Ngāti Rangi, Te Āti Haunui a Pāpārangi, Ngāti Tūwharetoa) discovered a love for creative writing later in life. She lives in the north of Aotearoa, New Zealand. She has work published with Broken Spine Arts, in takahē magazine, and was thrilled to get a special mention in Given Words 2025. She recommends Angela Janda’s “Reading Joan Didion in the Condo in Red River” from the Stone Circle Review archive. You can find her on Bluesky @kakapowhakatoi.bsky.social.