Petrichor
from the Greek words for stone and the blood of the gods
the fresh earthy smell of rain on dry soil
During an arid spell
some plants release oils into the earth
Rain droplets aerosolize these oils into particles
which are swept up in the currents of the air and brought to us

In a quiet little nook just out of the rain
you know the one
a warm zephyr dances on the air between our lips
I breathe it in and kiss you

Ozone
from the old Greek
the pretty words all are
meaning ‘to smell’
an alternate form of oxygen that has three atoms instead of two
Lightning splits O2 and N2 in the air
which recombine into nitric acid
a loose-bonded molecule that oxidizes and forms
among other things
the spark-sharp scent of ozone

My skin tingles
when it’s not touching yours
Your fingertips are thunderbolts
fulminations on a
breathless
body

They say smell is the closest sense to memory
Both are processed by the brain’s limbic system
as is emotion

Outside
the air crackles
the rain falls
Inside
the heat of us
flaring scratches on your alabastrine skin
the smell of your hair and the soil and the lightning
is its own storm

People wonder why every cloudburst makes me smile

I was street dove eyed
Another sleepless passenger
When the war between the lighthouse and the smog began.

Chimneys
dating back to Victorian times
Shipped their bakery smells to the salt and grease

The colossal banks of them
Victorious in their pursuit to have me step foot into
West Yorkshire's bell jar.

I scoured the trees for spider monkeys, clinging to the backs of their vampire boys
An alabastrine, dazzling climb

Which furthered my trek to the hardcastle crags;
The medieval houses cheering me on in their church pew rows.

Where the hill went up and up and up, so much that the bus was about to tip - on the edge of the world I was.

The twilight town, still green from September, and to think I was drafted to fight for the sea
When Hebden Bridge is where I want to be.