It's Still Life

As Deep as It Is Dark

Its scent spreads. In waves.
Mimics the sea. At low tide.
Settles around my face. My hair
and nose, teases in a voiceless way.

I’m four, maybe more, but not much,
and I’m playing with my red truck
on the patio. The arbour beams
are dark with grapevines tangled up

like woven lace, up and around
and wringing with unspoken drama.
Its leaves rusty yellow, and full of
spiders that drop from spun webs.

I follow that scent into the kitchen.
Mum’s leaned against the countertop,
bending over a whole salmon that’s
twice the length of the sink. She holds

a knife, and showers the air and
floor with mother-of-pearl scales.

P’Blooming Day 2: Scents