A cinnamon merchant describes England
to the Satrap of Tashkent

Theirs is an economy built entirely on sheep.
Yet they do not distinguish a single creature from the flock,
a chunk of butchered meat reverts to its infancy,
and they pull the wool over their eyes before they sleep.
 
In their language, no distinction is made
between the farewells of the departing
and of those who are left behind:
adventurers, with a questing gleam in their eyes,
exchange goodbyes
with their abandoned wives.
 
In their language there are eighteen words for rain.
 
I saw my cinnamon ground to powder
and used to flavour cakes.
I heard them talk of drip, drop, drizzle,
hail, sleet, smirr, mist and mizzle;
a cloudburst, a shower, spitting and spotting,
a downpour, a drencher, a deluge,
precipitation, and lovely weather for ducks.
 

R. Rushforth Morley

published in The Interpreter’s House, 22