Arrival

It smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet,

cold metal and concrete sighing under cloud.

Tarmac heat, distant diesel,

a hint of toast from the café no one sees.

There’s a breath of old newspapers,

of suitcase wheels, tired feet,

and lavender still clinging

to a scarf from Provence

as it passes you in the crowd.

The air holds a hum of bus brakes,

the ghost of cigarette smoke,

wet stone, airport soap.

London exhales like a wet dog,

familiar, musty, alive.

You’re home, and the sky

smells like it remembers you.