Poetry: A scent of you

A scent of you
(with apologies to Joni Mitchell)

I met her in Fitzrovia, fragrance in the air.
“I nose this town,” I said and followed her vapour trails
to Chanel No 5 and Chelsea – she’s a Peter Jones girl.
To Bow and barley and the stout pint we drank.

By Pudding Lane the burning tinge was cinnamon,
the foundations of her gin palace lemon.
Strawberries in Southwark soon followed,
and to Oval and its square-cut grass,
the sharp-cut mint in which she washed me.

A sniff on the wind and I’m falling.
“You smell like you now,” she said, smiling.