Auntie Nellie takes a rest 
from the Singer Futura 
she slaves over each day 
at her kitchen table,

pours Turkish coffee into 
dollhouse cups, the foamiest 
is passed to Leigh, her eyes 
are a lighthouse I’m yet to see.

Nellie receives, slowly swirls 
three times, flips it face down 
on the saucer - a plucked foxglove. 
Grandad’s pebble of lucky coal 
placed on the base to draw heat.

Repeat after me: 
Whatever I am, let it be in my cup

Handle is pinched high for future, 
spun to reveal a murmuration of grounds 
cast like a net across its inner wall:

Stray nestlings will join your brood, 
one who is not yours will become yours - 
feed him lovingly for he will be greedy 
for the touch of a mother’s hand. 
A boy stands glowing at a street door 
cupping a silhouetted bullfinch. 
His heart is an overgrown garden 
in which you are a nightingale so 
sing like one & love will always find you.