The road to Birmingham

The scent of crows
is shiny black
like starry night.
Of cut hay
is muddy gold
like sunlight spooned in earth.
Of a butterfly
is fleeting fluttery
like rainbow dust.
Of patched clothing
is salty of teardrops, of sweat
our struggle, our failings, our warmth.

The scent of horses
is strong
like the wind
humming barbed wire.
Of leafy trees
is annual
as we season, shed robes,
add rings.
Of a music box
is peppery with cream
like soup
stirring, steaming, pouring.

The road to Birmingham

The scent of purple flowers
is subtle, reaching
like love.
Of red roofed houses
is soft yet firm
like comfort.
The scent of mother daughter
resting on the road to Birmingham
is the scent of comets
passing planets as
they scintillate the sky
among the hay, the butterfly
making music of silence
as we wish them
bounty.