At the window the blank of a day
edges up from an unseen horizon.
A sudden tang of air shoulders space away
opens a door to a place long forgotten
where scent seeded the rich red soil
burnt and burst colours into day
and carries them in arms of memory
Seedbank
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“. . . scent seeded the rich red soil . . .”
Yes, more than anything, it is scents and aromas which can, in a trice, take me back to childhood. Woodsmoke is an especially evocative scent: I smell woodsmoke on the air (and it is winter here, and I often smell woodsmoke), and I remember with yearning the Africa of my childhood.