A Permeation

On certain evenings, when streetlamps paint
the low-slung sky with indiscriminate orange
and walking the well-thumbed directory
of Victorian terraces disturbs a scent that nudges
a memory you cannot place, then a channel
may fall open and animated hieroglyphs
trouble the street signs, and if you wished,
you could cut through by sudden osmosis
following the distant voice of a solitary car
two streets separate, shifting the air just a little
and loosening a clutch of late blossom
that spills like unmourned milk at careless feet.

Ben Parker