Petrichor

It's the smell of soil post a fall,
The streets flow to the chiffchaff's call,
An ambrosial odour overtakes
And my sense breathes,
Wishes to breathe forever.
Like the water cold in earthen pots,
In the summer bliss, like mud cots,
Like nostalgia of cherished days,
Like villages and wet hay,
The clay sings and staggers my sense.

Like my thirst quenched with brooked water,
Like the earthy scent of the wheel of a potter,
Like the unreal haze of a hilly walk,
Like dew dripping down green stalks,
Like leaves drinking again for good,
Reminiscence of my childhood.

The petrichor is more than a redolence,
It's a bundle of emotions,
Of memories, Of joys and sorrows,
Of nostalgia, and the smell of bygone days.