Reading Teacups (Poetry)

An ancient language written in wet leaves —
faint echoes left when liquid drains its tide
and scatters debris on a china beach
that gleams with clues for mystics to decide
what might be learnt — deciphered from the way
those dregs reveal their riddles — strange — oblique
impossible for those who doubt to say
what can’t be seen by one who half-believes...

For some the teacup’s message is unique —
circean in its meaning — faith infused
with ritual boiling of the chosen blend —
the essence of far hillsides stirred and brewed
as aid to divination — that rare art
true seers know and fancy may portend
from vagueries whose patterns swirl apart
and offer insight — let old wisdoms speak.

Maybe it’s all some harmless gypsy game —
amusing on a rainy afternoon
to play at magick — conjure spirits so...
Imagine how a shadow chills the room
with tea now cooling — ring on darker ring
one drinker spooked — decided they should go —
how could the shape of leaves mean anything?
But best to heed such warnings all the same.