The beckoning remnants

My mother’s friend lived near a perfume factory.
Her well kept garden smelt of a hundred cashmere cardigans...
Worn by old ladies with merry cheeks
And milky eyes
Knitting crochet lovingly
 
 
Hold me
 
 
I would climb the apple tree
To try to reach the sky
And catch the pale blue sapphire
gleaming,
on a golden pinwheel, spinning.
How a rose can smell so sweetly
When the scent is not its own.
 
 
I could have stayed
 
 
Instead we would leave,
To drive home in the car
And I would wind the windows tightly
For fear of smelling other things
Too gruesome to be seen.
These thoughts I often pondered on the journey in between.
 
 
Magnets and destination
 
 
Sleep is a butterfly net made of chainmail.
And I am but a child
Swimming in a sea of cats eyes,
Drowning darkly;
 
 
On a pillow made of lead.
 
 
To where this town is painted red...
Red by the many sulphur driven clouds
That insist upon the car
From their tall and pointy spires
They blaze crimson from afar.
To light this bitumen canvas.
 
 
Black and Grey
 
 
Somehow redrawn
from the masterpiece, torn
And left in subliminal form.
For the beckoning remnants reprise
 
 
A silent incantation.
 
I want to go home...