Nothing screams heresy
more than cream and jam
applied to one’s scone
in the wrong order.

I’ve seen polite tea rooms
become rougher than an exuberant
Friar Street on a Friday night,
white plastic patio chairs
launched across the town square
because someone made a blunder.

Old Cyril, the retired civil servant,
and Florence, a young mum,
breastfeeding little Archie,
would turn, in an instant —
jam-packed with indignation,
sending out the signal
to the secret Tea Room Conservators,
who arrive in moments,
ultra-ready to fight their cause.

The swell of raspberry-coloured flares,
Molotov cocktails flying
over silver spoons,
upright like flag poles
in bowls of clotted cream,
as balaclava-clad elders careen
on souped-up mobility scooters
alongside battering-prams,
reoffenders known only too well
by the quietly supportive
local law enforcement.

Eventually, they’re returned
to polite society
with a restraining order
to stay away from regional flags
and purveyors of cream teas.

It’s anyone’s guess
whether they’d feel their ancestors’ pride
had they witnessed the genteel tea rooms
of Torquay and St Ives,
in the summer of circa 1859.

————

David Bernard grew up in the Westcountry of England, but refuses to be drawn on whether it was Cornwall or Devon. He now lives in rural Herefordshire, a county known mostly for its farmland. David isn’t a farmer, but does something nebulous called ‘business change.’ He used to be a high school teacher, until he realised there were less traumatic ways of making a living. His poems have appeared in Wildfire Words.