Sumac

Sumac

In the quiet garden, beneath the oaks,
the sumac bend, a slender, coppery sweep,
where dust of golden wax alights the dirt,
and every leaf holds a promise of warm spice.

It grows in fields of glimmering stone,
outside town’s edge where summer's breath
fills the air with subtle notes of citrus
and the faintest blush of nettled rose.

I take a handful and crush it in my palm,
the powder bright as torch‑lit amber
shivering in the dust, a riot of colour
that sings in a connoisseur’s whisper.

On a platter of lamb, the sumac gleams,
a starlight peppering the grill’s blush,
its tang a pledge of distant lands –
a half‑hidden secret, inside a black stone.

In the kitchen, the sumac invites a stirring:
a splash of lemon, a pinch of salt,
and my neighbour, nation of rain, says
“Darwin, come along, try it.”

It is the spice that hangs in kitchens,
in crumbling English cottages, when the winter's drier:
a pinch over roasted carrots, a sprinkle on coleslaw,
the color of autumn’s heart.

And as the clock strikes six, the pot bubbles,
the scent refuses to fade, reminds me of birds at dusk:
their calls a low, rolling hum,
and the same sweetness, the same potion – sumac.

Because a spice, though small, is a living story,
the arc from the coast of Anatolia
to the table where old‑fashioned woks mingle,
and to the memory of smoke, of wind.

So I breathe the scent of sumac --
I taste it once more, I sigh.
A drop of fire in a glass of sea,
and the poetry of flavour, finely unfurled.