cold stillness
and old incense
spun in swirls to the dark ceiling.
a portico
and me,
standing on the edge,
inhaling as if I could breath that smell into
the vaults of my memory
.
. . .
.
THE SMELL OF THE INCENSE :
charred bracken
stained wood
lavender fields
and musty velvet.
.
. . .
.
there was hay on the floor,
like a carpet of gold threads -
worn by shuffling feet, till the warp is all bare.
