Three Poems

Encounter

Late November. Heading toward Morden
on the Northern Line, I looked up from my phone
as the doors closed, provoked not by a voice
or a brush with a masked man but by a delicious
smell that floated in at Chalk Farm
though no one had got on – the smell of resinous
pines, orange blossom and pelargonium.
No one else seemed to notice.

What invisible thing carried it in?
The Northern Line’s not known for its perfume.
Something brushed my cheek, spoke
inaudibly. No one gave us a second look.
Then it came to me: had I, near-ghost,
been found by another ghost?



‘Adam and Eve’
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