cold stillness

and old incense

spun in swirls to the dark ceiling.

a portico

and me,

standing on the edge,

inhaling as if I could breath that smell into

the vaults of my memory

.
. . .
.

THE SMELL OF THE INCENSE :

charred bracken

stained wood

lavender fields

and musty velvet.

.
. . .
.

there was hay on the floor,

like a carpet of gold threads -

worn by shuffling feet, till the warp is all bare.