Patchouli

Waiting here on the doorstep,
looking for movement through frosted glass.
Familiar end to familiar day,
and every day the same.
Comfort in this well-worn suburban routine
for them - but not for this raging heart.


Mum reaches to open the door.
Distorted forms flit beneath glacial surface:
refractions - a story only half-told.


A heady rush as the aroma of another tells me: you're home!
Your heavy scent evokes adventures of a life exotically lived,
far away in London.
My heart races: your longed-for presence precious, lighting up this dull, stifling world, 
illuminating the route of my own escape.