I balance my hot coffee on the edge of the window sill
I look out on the frosty day, seeing you, collar up,
head down, determined to leave this place,
Struggling up the ice that covers the hill.
I draw a heart around your retreating shape
Where the coffee steam rises on the cold window pane
Inevitably you walk on, out of its already weeping embrace
Until you finally vanish, lost in the white landscape
Gone without a trace.
i walk through Hyde Park
as dawn rises to morning
my head still full of music, trance dance,
spins in the freshness of early risen light
i head for the river, embankment, bridges
passing a cafe window i catch her glance
a smile, she turns away to her coffee
the image of her profile engraved on my retina
i walk on and never forget her
such are the tricks of chance and no chance
i watch the arc of a pigeons flight
a feather drops at my feet
a second gift from this city
the only gift i can touch
The smell of roast coffee haunts the street.
I wait to reach it, breath deep
as we pass, my mothers high heels clatter
briskly across the cellar grating as she drags me
by that alluring café where people are talking.
I imagine them all as artists, writers,
just as I want to be. Is coffee the key?
In summer, roses and sun cream,
the smell of a warm tennis ball,
at the pool, fluoride burns in my throat,
hot tarmac, big roller pressing it flat.
The heat of a greenhouse full of tomatoes,
geranium leaves crushed between fingers,
new mown lawns and sprinklers.
Wet dogs, the strong deep smell of horse,
bran mash and hay, wintergreen, autumn, leather,
new baked bread and a simmering curry.
More pungent the scent of a dark, damp wood,
seaweed on the wind by the ocean
that catches my heart and opens my lungs.
No hurry then as the world stands still.
My father smelled of sawdust, tweed,
tobacco, fresh paint and engine oil,
of his indefinable tribal self,
nothing like anyone else.
As a child that smell meant safe,
warm as the smell of a fir tree
bedecked in Christmas lights,
firelight shadows on walls.
I can recall the perfume,
the scent, the pure animal smell,
of everyone I ever loved.
Now give me oranges, rosemary,
bergamot bottled, uncorked,
for comfort alone.
The Dreaming Path 