Following the Scent
My youngest grandson smells of apricots and spice.
His older brothers still retain a trace of that
but, mostly, these boys smell of youth and life,
and of the future, unexplored and vast.
Through infancy and childhood, I breathed in
my daughtersí blends of aromatic pheromones
which linger in their adult hair and skin,
exquisite scents, unique to each alone.
My husbandís fragrance signals home,
mixed up with hills and woods and sky and air,
spiked with a tang of the unknown,
a sense that he might take me anywhere.
Most other folk donít smell at all
except of perfume or of aftershave.
Perhaps, of course, I donít get close enough to tell.
Itís rude to sniff somebody you donít love.
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Isabel Miles
would be pleased to hear them