The meniscus is a taut violet, the subtle sheen of blue creating the illusion of an amethyst cave. It swirls in misty eddies and leaves fine sediment at the bottom of the clay blasted vessel. As the coloured paper is opened, the seeds sitting invitingly within the cotton pouch, its fresh scent emanates like the perfume of mother nature, spreading gently, soothing, calming, enveloping you in a grace-scented embrace. Coffee-burnt tongues refer to it as dirty water, tasteless, useless. But their taste buds are coarse, vulgar. They haven’t slipped over the waterfalls of echinacae and cranberry, raspberry, blueberry and the vanilla coated presence of rooibos.
It slips gently down your throat, tickling the sides of your mouth, tantalising your nostrils and adding a pleasing lilt to your deep breaths. It wraps passionate-pink fingers over your vocal chords, which, as they stretch lower, massaging your lungs and your stomach before settling like a lovingly warmed water-bottle in your solar plexus, gently fill your body with a natural peace.
In the wee hours of the morning, in the final bows of the evening, its like the sweet hum of nature settling around you reminding you it will be alright. Herbal Tea, natures purple sprinkled masseuse.