The tickling taste of cinnamon,
has always reminded me of home.
Not home,
in a physical sense anyway,
but its warmth and sense of security.
I ate a bowl of cinnamon cereal
on a rainy British day.
I was only four or five,
and all at once,
my life was a dazzling piece of art;
not yet touched by life’s dirty hands.
We would watch the raindrops,
fall from the torn sky,
and wonder in amazement
how they’d appeared.
The wooden draws has not yet
began to creak,
and our now ancient sofa,
had not yet begun to feel so old.
The whole world smelt like
the grit of dirt,
churned in with sweet lavender,
and soothing maternal song.
Cinnamon would float on by
through the air,
and all would be the perfect
rainy British day.