Scent of a Woman

In the dim light of a London dusk
she lingers like a well‑worn novel—
the faint perfume of tea leaves,
whispered across a cracked paving stone.

A swirl of rose, lavender in the wind,
layered beneath the faintest musk,
crisp enough to please the slyest night‑watcher,
yet soft as the hush after a choir’s hymn.

The scent carries a history,
a breadcrumb trail of laughing children,
of seaside salt that clings like a thread of patience
to the fingers of a calloused hand.

It settles in the hallowed hush
of a quiet pub, the grain of oaken table,
the amber glow of a lantern, on the corner of a cobbled street.

The fragrance of a woman is a renaissance of scent,
a tapestry of flavour—whiskey, plum, and dreams—
the wake‑up call of a bloom pressed in an old photograph,
a lullaby for the soul, wrapped in the mystic veil of night.