Poetichor

The scent of a poem can drive me to distraction,
like spores from a page of mildewed putrefaction,
accumulated fluff and dust from under the bed,
or the grey and blue mould on a slice of old bread;

sometimes it’s cherry blossom dancing in trees,
an explosion of honeysuckle on a summer breeze,
a meadow of wildflowers or freshly mown hay,
a stranger’s steaming overcoat on a rainy day.

It could be the lather on my granddad’s shaving brush,
the lipstick on a bed-time kiss or my mothers’ “Hush!”
the just-bathed drowsiness of my grandson’s embrace
of the buttery toast crumbs on his good-morning face:

poetichor drifts, ghostlike, from line to line,
a multitude of odours fading over time.

Kim M. Russell, 26th July 2020

Honeysuckle 1

A Sunday sonnet

 

2 thoughts on “Poetichor

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.