Smell

Ode to the Ordinary Whiff

The early morning in a sleepy English town
sidles on my tongue with a scent of damp stone,
the dampness of the ancient oak, the chalky dust below,
a hint of rain that has yet to fall from the sky.

A fragrant trickle of brewed café—
black coffee, buttery scones, a splash of clotted cream—
in the shop’s open door where the old brass bell rings.
It calls me to the café, the voice of hot buttered toast,
the tender sigh of steam, the soft murmur of a conversation.

There is a particular scent that stains a day:
the smell of a London bus, a blend of oil and gum,
the buzzing hum of a five‑minute elevator ride,
the faint perfume of a scientist’s experiment.
The scent climbs from the inside to my ears in the wallpaper,
amidst the flicker of the crossword of a newspaper.

In a flat across the street, from a wedge of wooden cupboard,
a stew smells like sheep’s meat, a musky‑sweet szechuan greens.
The bright citrus of a fruit basket sits on my mantelpiece,
the sweet motley‑faded scent of my favourite patchwork quilt.

And when winter’s winter wind comes whistling,
breathe it the next day, of pine, wrong, and wintery‑bleak.
I listen with a simple, gothic smile,
to scent the taste of my memory, and depending on an in‑hole life.

I stand under the soft clouds of the quilt,
I read the hidden language of scent.

This world is thick with the synergies of dust and warmth,
each pyrrhic being a truly romantic life.

? In the UK you call it the “Coloured Light,”
and the intangible smells that carry the purpose of a true life.