Giotto and the Smell of Oranges

(The Poetry Bus)
A special medal of commendation should struck for Jeanne who not only took over the driving of the bus at short notice, but came up with a range of beautiful options from which it was exceedingly difficult to choose. Eventually, I came down in favour of my favourite summer sensory memories. Thanks Jeanne.

A summer treat,
our Charing Cross Road Pilgrimage,
my annual rummage through its shrines:
bookshops by the mile,
books by the shelf, the tray, the pile.
All mine! Collecting them
like stamps, not always
understanding them.

The musty smell
to me a form of incense
to others like old clothes
the smells of jumble sales.
The dust like snuff, that rose:
the violent sneeze;
thick papers, yellow, ribbed
like corduroy, that thumb
and finger rubbed -- once nearly
rubbed away, so friable,
erasing part of Blake's
The Keys of Calais, which I bought.

But some I'd feel
the way I'd seen my gran
feel fruit in Surrey Street,
the Croydon market. Some
were bright and shiny,
full of colour, like the fruit,
and had the same faint
tang of acid. There was one
that smelt of oranges, of pine
and maybe of vanilla -- though
I never quite made up my mind.
Its stained and wrinkled pages,
stuck together front and back,
are treasured still -- The Frescoes of
Giotto with its gorgeous plates
(two missing) pasted in.

My mother's music bag
tucked underneath my arm
would bulge increasingly.
I'd hope for rain and turn
my face towards it if it came
to feel it on my skin
and feel the joy
of knowing that my books were dry.

So many subjects went home
in that bag and waited there,
for years sometimes, for me
to understand their meanings --
all introduced by way
of arbitrary odours
or a textured feel. To me
Giotto and the smell of oranges
are one of this world's items.

---

Haiku #227

Life more virtual
when Royal Mail deprives us
of our county names?