Sagaing, Burma

Sagaing




The tea was sweet. Green,
it hung in the chipped cup
like a haze waiting to lift.

Sunlight, filtered through a small
copse of dry trees, hit the
tea. The cloud swirled, fragments
of leaf swimming like dust
in a poor river.

There were as many white temples
as there were specks. Against grey
cloud they stuck out like snow;
I watched a line of them
follow the hillside down to the
river.

The second cup was better; the
first is strong, somewhat bitter
with the taste of rich leaves.
The second – and third – weaker,
its taste more subtle, almost mellow.
We left before the fourth.