The Sun was just a cm above the brow
When the wheels came to a screeching halt;
Parked, by the highway, and paused to refresh.
Reclined on a jute cot under an asbestos sheet,
Strewn around were a few foldable chairs by the road;
This solace was just another shack with no nameplate;
Couple of dented vessels accompanied the gas stove.
A serial of sachets hung from a clothesline behind.
The steam arose and and the aroma wafted;
For once, the vapour left a tornado’s trail.
He distilled the perfect concoction into a paper cup.
The sip as it cruised from the cup to the lip,
T’was richer than the armadas of the spice trade.
Cinnamon, cardamom, peppercorns, candied ginger and cloves
Packed a fiver punch in a tea glove.
Bit by bit as I reached the bottom of the cup
The Sun flung his Earl Grey and sank back into the clouds.