Biscuits

Before the Persians defined the perfect balance of flour, sugar and eggs
Someone, in their wisdom decided to make a mould
Into which our ingredients are poured

Soft peaks of butter cream are whipped together
Milk, vanilla and honey are folded in
After which, we bake together at a blistering 180 degrees

Domed and elliptical, bumpy and imperfect
Our cream centres are soft and acquiescent
Sugar-spun gold, meets cinnamon swirls on shifting, sand like crumbs

Powdery to the touch, melt in the mouth
And packaged in fragile violet paper
Only the finest patisseries will stock our worldly goods

How appealing it is to peel back the tissue, just a little bit
Select the desired flavour of the evening
And let our taste buds do the talking