Yesterday, as I was travelling home from university, I was caught in a sudden downpour without my umbrella. As I took shelter at the train station, I wrote a short poem inspired by that blissful smell of rain on a warm autumn day.
Petrichor
Blood from a stone.
Crystalline.
Divine.
A smell as old as mould and stale sunshine.
Perfumed.
Pungent.
Against the cloying warmth a salving unguent.
Loamy.
It lingers.
Tickles the nostrils with mist-moistened fingers.
Dani O'Shea 