This year I grew outdoor tomato plants for the first time and found myself transported back to childhood by their distinctive smell.
So often scents connect us with forgotten places and times-past far more readily than conscious memory does.
THE GREENHOUSE
The greenhouse, which he built that final year,
is standing still, the timber bleached with age,
its window-glass surprisingly intact,
some cobwebs, but the panes still mostly clear.
Outside the door is nailed an old rain-gauge,
unused for twenty years, the dials cracked.
I step inside, slip into long ago:
the smell of heated earth, old leather boots,
the well-remembered rich tomato tang,
and seem to see the plants I played below,
those scented stalks bent with tumescent fruits,
the hook where father’s felt hat used to hang.
Some men write poems or songs to leave their mark:
proud, peerless words they hope will outlive death.
My long-dead father never was that kind:
no man of words, his world was austere, stark
but, in his greenhouse, with each indrawn breath
that unforgotten scent brings him to mind.
No comments:
Post a Comment