A scent of outhouse brings me back
to leisured days of youth,
to sunwarm gneiss as smooth as ice
beneath my bare feet running for seclusion.
Its sense is not perfumed but smells of comic books
I read alone while watching streaks of sunlight
playing with my toes.
It’s seagulls calling at a fishing-boat
returning with a morning catch of mackerel,
it’s dinghy days, and sting of salt on skin,
it’s sunburn and the thunderstorm
we watched in shelter of our home.
So fumes of outhouse that mingle
with a stranded jellyfish and elder bloom
is almost recreating childhood lost.
Today Grace wants us to write about scent and smells at dVerse Poetics. For some reason the smell of outhouse (no it’s not pleasant) bring back memories of my childhood’s summer house. I remember sitting in this outhouse and listening while reading comic books.
June 28, 2016