Cinnamon.(Poem)

 
CINNAMON 
 
   At the verge of sienna, the red in paintings 
   on Pompeii's walls, leopard yellow 
   stalking forests--perhaps it's my favourite colour 
   And if I sand toast with cinnamon it becomes 
   a magic carpet, flies me to afternoons 
   when mist wiped the mouth of the Clyde 
   and its great tongues of water, fudged 
   everything to a dirty white. So I come 
 
   to dried eggs in sullen spoonfuls, 
   to chocolate--its precious squares rationed, 
   to that flat Sunday my father 
   offered a treat of lion and tiger 
   and we listened, two small girls trapped 
   in liberty bodices, to the secret clatter 
   in the kitchen. When he wheeled in 
   the dolls' pram and with slow ceremony 
 
   delved beneath the waterproof cover 
   buttoned over its bassinet, put 
   egg cups in our hands, the moment 
   was more magical than any pattern 
   I could shake up in the kaleidoscope. 
   Nothing since has tasted as sumptuous 
   as those wild animals ground 
   to cinnamon powder, drinking chocolate, 
 
   the gravel of hundreds and thousands, 
   and jewelled with the shining silver balls 
   hoarded for the ice rinks of birthday cakes. 
   It was as if ...