The sound of small plastic wheels On the ridged metal lip of an escalator Bookends each trip between home and birthplace.
The first two uptempo, eager To race to the smell of marble and leather, Perfectly cooked fish and pastries with blueberries The next two, piano, as I cross back, Result of exhaustion, arms full of clothes and sorting small bottles into bags.
But on exit Not due to vents, air conditioning, or the sensory assault of shopping under halogens, Home smells of rust. Of dirt and smoke - burnt. Home smells more damaged and ****** up than its neighbour And it's apt position on the map Behind our back Peering over the shoulder of the small ursa, overbearing and controlling.
But it's not the smell of burning petrol and tissue in glass, Nor riot shields and plastic armour, And only slightly of over emphasis on Northern Irish poetry during exams.
It's the stench of friendships, bouquet of break-ups, Awkwardness and overconfidence, Fake tanning and too much tea.
And like bonfires and cigarette smoke, Burnt wood and tobacco embers, It's the one perfume I can't get out of my clothes.