Dead Scabs

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.

Robin Helweg-Larsen

If you have any comments on this poem, Robin Helweg-Larsen would be pleased to hear from you.