Moorchild

The taste of Bournvita reminds me of something.
Blown glass, warm tea cups, sunny wood reeds...
Each sip of warm liquid greets tongue, lips, cold fingers
Stirs gently old feelings
Dark Moorfolk bag pipe
dancers fringing my memories
Come closer as each swallow strengthens my intake
Diffuses till everything turns richly brown
And all that I hear are strange songs in my head
Familiar, they know me, and strain to break forth
But the rim tips, the warmth drains
And my cup is empty.