I lack amongst other things a keen sense of smell.
Coffee I have no problem with. It leads me
by the nose into the kitchen each morning
before vanishing at first sip.
And cheap scent? Ah, bonsoir!
How many lamp-posts have I
almost walked into, senses blindfolded,
lost in the misdemeanours of time?
At twenty paces I can sniff the difference
between a vindaloo and a coq au vin.
Weak at the knees, I will answer
the siren call of onions sizzling,
Sent reeling, punch-drunk on garlic.
No, it’s the subtleties that I miss.
Flowers. Those free gifts laid out
on Mother Nature’s perfume counter.
Sad but true, roses smell red to me
(even white ones). Violets blue.
Everything in the garden, though lovely,
might as well be cling-filmed.
If I close my eyes and you hold up
a bloom, freshly picked, moist with dew,
I smell nothing. Your fingers perhaps?
Oil of Ulay? Nail varnish?
Then describe in loving detail its pinkness,
the glowing intensity of its petals,
and I will feel its warm breath upon me,
the distinctive scent of its colour.
Those flowers you left in the bedroom
a tangle of rainbows spilling from the vase.
Gorgeous. I turn off the light.
Take a deep breath. Smell only darkness.