Woody Perfume

Oh, The music of Wood-smoke...

The fickle witch at work can’t stop moping about her sodden aversion to the smell of smoke.


What's thàt?! It smells so acrid (Sigh. Of course it smells, but not like that)

How revolting…

It can’t be good for one..!!!


For me on the other hand, the smell of wood-smoke casts out the devils of a mundanely existence.

If something rekindles and awakes tender feelings of melancholy and the stirrings of happiness in my soul, it is smoke wafting from a bonfire, tickling my nose and senses to live.

The smell of moss and smoke clouds over feelings of anxiety and boredom that sometimes skulk in the back of my mind.

It brings a tingling feeling of life to me that reverberate all through me. And it wafts me away on wisps of threadbare smoky strands spiraling through the wide branches of pine-needle giants and hill-forests.

On the Isle of Skye, I once mistook mist for smoke. The upwards flutters of a misty cloud transported me to the days of small stoked fires and kindred spirited gypsies in the woods. But then, the misty isle has that effect on one...

This last fragments of a dying wood-fire, now all but evaporated also carries me back to the farm where two three four things are synonymous: bees, a thousand tiny gum-tree flowers, honey and back at the house, leafy rubbishy soft smoke lingering amongst the hill, outhouse and me.