Tea

 

Tea is a chestnut horse with a steam-grey mane. It’s a mountainside rippling bright green in the breeze, folded into a blue box with elephants marching round the lid. It was born on the Irrawaddy and gave birth to the Cutty Sark-- tea launched a thousand ships, white-winged clippers spanning the Pacific. Tea has been a tool of empire and a call to revolution. It’s a word in every language and a taste on every tongue. It’s smoke, grass, flowers; it’s sometimes called gunpowder but that’s just marketing.

Tea comes in the morning to chat about my plans for the day. Tea comes in the evening to wish me sweet dreams. When I cry into my teacup, the steam hides my tears. But what they tell you about tealeaves is not true, tea is too wise to play the fortune-telling game and would rather talk about history anyway.

Tea is black, white, yellow, red, green. They’ve trained monkeys to pick it but there are no machines that can do the job. It’s a warm blanket when it’s cold and a cool breeze when it’s hot; it likes to be served with grace and drunk with appreciation and if you can do that, it will always be your friend.

 

Books Available
Dervish Lions
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside