Why is it that the poets tell?

So little of the sense of smell

These are the odours I love well:

The smell off coffee freshly ground;

Or rich plum pudding, holly-crowned

                                 Or onions fried and deeply-browned 

The fragrance of a funny pipe;

The smell of apples, newly ripe;

And printers ink of leaden type

Woods by moonlight in September

Breathe most street; and I remember

Many a smoky lamp-fire ember…

Camphor, turpentine, and tea

The balsam of the Christmas tree

These are the whiffs of gram rye…

But a ship smells best of all to me!

  

   BY: LIFA RADEBE