|Cinnamon, sweet wood spice, once traded like gold,
when I look for my roots I find you, yellowish brown
like my winter skin, native of Sri Lanka, growing wild
in the jungles of the Kandy Highlands.
Fourteen ninety-two, Columbus never finds you,
But Portugal, travels East to an island that falls, like
The Dutch make plantations, to tame your wild fragrance,
Dutch East India becomes British East India.
Nineteen ninety-two I buy your ground aroma in pre-packed jars,
Published in Wild Cinnamon and Winter Skin, Peepal Tree Press, 2007