SCENT OF A WOMAN

The sun sinks into the horizon.
Long after it’s gone,
The western sky
Still carries a memory of crimson & orange.
The warmth still lingers in the breeze,
In the wheat fields, on river sands
And between the ebb and flow
Of evening’s Theatre.

It’s a room of unforgettable dimensions
-to one corner
There is an unmade bed
And to another, a messy wardrobe.
The objects in the room are dusty and unattended.
A middle-aged man with disheveled hair and dirty clothes
Is slouched in an arm-chair.
He is staring
At a window that has not been opened for the last two years.
The wall beside him
Has numerous cobwebbed photographs, thirty maybe, of a woman.

A scarlet scent
Hangs among the objects of the room.
It’s the scent of her vibrant, passionate moods.
It’s the scent that keeps him alive.

One day
All would be gone –
The Room, the Objects, the Man in the arm-chair, his Agony.
It’s just the scent
That stays...... the scarlet scent.