A carved rosewood box
Origin unknown
Delicate- intricate,
Small as a tea caddy.

The box open
Retains still exotic aromas
In its teak lining…
smells of a world,
Where nimble fingers slaved
To serve a Shahib.

The box master
Frail, weak- but skilled
Cross legged in the Sun
Carved ancestral designs
He knew no audience…
Would understand.

The box, now a gift sent to England
Where a landed foreign family
Would never bother to see
The art- the craft
The box maker forged with just a knife…
The dowager opened the box
“Would you like some tea?”

(Mike)