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


34 thoughts on “Poetichor

  1. What a vatic equivalent, poetichor. Poetry as the faint resonance of the living world. I loved how you give example after example of impactful scent in lines which flow and rhyme in remembrance. The poem is the deed, an eloquence of abundance. Perfect for the challenge.


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