Circling like a dog round something dead
the scent that draws the ravens and the crows
the scent of blood that draws a shark three miles
the sweet scent, scent of perfume, danger, death.
Unsettled memories, difficult deeds,
or acts undone, failures, embarrassments...
scratching the itch, picking the scabs of poetry.
If you have any comments on this poem, Robin Helweg-Larsen
would be pleased to hear from you.