Stink

The kitchen window sighs, a damp and mouldy veil,
Where yesterday’s fish curls in a silent, oily wail.
A whiff of burnt toast lingers, sharp as sour regret,
While old trainers whisper secrets only soles can get.

Down the lane the rubbish bin exhales a sour brew,
Cabbage skins and tea‑stained bags in a melancholy stew.
Even the rain, when it comes, seems to drag the smell along,
Turning cobbles into mirrors of a pungent, lingering song.

Yet somewhere in the haze a memory takes hold—
Grandma’s lavender sachet, brave against the cold,
A fleeting breath of sweet that dares to push the stink aside,
Reminding us that even foul can fade with love’s soft tide.