In the caravan of dreams,
at the back of the north wind,
in the wood beyond the world,
a conference of birds was formed.
When one flew over the cuckoos nest
they all thought they might die.
They left the tavern of ruin.
For bread alone they searched
beneath the sheltering sky.
They flew along the song lines
”Let it all come down!”
was their cry
The sand child, then,
was just a wink and a waft
of the jitterbug,
perfume,
from the djinn
in the nightingales eye
the bee
eagerly flying
deeply desiring, flower to flower it skips
urgently buzzing, furiously humming
with perfume divine and wide open lips
the orchid accepts
the bee
Petal
Opens
Emerging
Magical
Perfumes
Only?
Eternal
Moments?
Perfect
One
Entwines
Mortality
Petal perfumes are perfect.
Opens only one.
Emerging eternal, entwines
Magical moments of mortality
Where was it, who was I and when?
A dream, almost remembered on waking
But gone, almost, just out of reach,
There at the back of my minds eye
Imprinted, unfocused yet real.
Was it long, or in passing, brief,
When was it our fingertips touched?
Just beyond reach is a thought of you,
A word on the tip of my tongue,
A perfume caught, a breeze recalled,
A scent I know but can’t name.
If I don’t think about it, I’ll know.
Now it is, what it was, what it is.
I like it so.
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 