Petrichor

My ode to petrichor (n) - Greek origin - the scent of rain on dry earth.

Mornings smell different,

especially after rain.

Dew cleaned ginnels and sorry patches of grass by front doors gleam, refreshed.

Night’s silence scents the air still,

lingers.

Rise early

submit to a silence

feel it fill you with space—

a vessel to fill with yourself.

By day, rain hurries people

into houses, offices, shops.

Like night, rain cleanses,

silence enters,

that impromptu visitor—

rain silence,

soaks through silt

releasing history to those

who emerge first,

those who waited under a bus-shelter, an oak tree,

those who swept puddles with their feet and saluted the onslaught.

That soily dampy rooty muddy meat of earth releases

my grandmother’s sweat as she dug soil to plant food,

my grandfather’s fear as he dug trenches while men cried and bled,

my mother’s tears when a man broke her heart,

my father’s guilt.

Every laugh that gushed from parted lips sits within our soil,

tears of incandescent love

when my child was born,

soft, delicate

like moulded jelly.

The scent of rain on earth—

I am fresh cut jasmine,

good blood, bad blood,

history, silence, space—

makes me feel

pristine