Nasal

In the quiet hush of morning light,
A twitch within the nasal way,
A scent of damp earth, of tea, of rain,
Stirs memories in muted grey.

The bridge of bone, a slender arch,
Guards passages where breezes play,
While tiny hairs like sentinels stand,
To trap the dust, to keep at bay.

A sudden tickle, soft and keen,
Ascends the ridge, a whispered call,
Then erupts in honest British sneeze—
“ACHOO!”—a burst that shakes the hall.

When colds descend and membranes swell,
The nose turns red, a rosy flare,
With streams of clear, then thicker snot,
A humble tide beyond compare.

Yet in this humble, oft‑neglected part,
Lies sense of scent, of taste, of life—
A quiet conduit, warm and dear,
That draws the world in, rife with strife.

So praise the nasal, humble gate,
Where breath and fragrance intertwine,
In British air, through mist and fog,
It finds its place, both yours and mine.