O is for Orange Pomander and Ochre Path

Love those last couple of lines, in particular. These short poems are deft work, Di. Enjoyable to read. Paul :)

I liked the idea of the wood scent in the pomander. And the patterned autumn wood paths. 'Fallen warmth' was a nice idea. Rhiannon

At the foot of the stairs in my Nan’s house, a dark brown knobbly object hung by a piece of thread from a rusty drawing pin pushed into the off-white emulsioned ceiling. Once or twice a year throughout my childhood I would ask the elders of our family what it was, the reply always being that it was to kill flies. I never saw flies in this part of the house so I believed them, though I still didn’t know what it was or how it worked.

Years later I heard from a more reliable source (Mrs Raper, the nextdoor neighbour) that it had been an orange (one of the first to appear at the end of wartime rationing) impaled by dozens of tiny cloves acquired from mystical Arab traders with great caravans of camels who had travelled from the East along Spice Roads with their wares to York (via Leeds, obviously).

Mrs R. went on to say that before the days of television, people would entertain themselves in more simple ways such as sticking bits of aromatic wood into the flesh of citrus fruit. The end result being called a pomander which, apparently, could kill flies. I still don’t know how it killed them. I imagine they died laughing at it.

I really liked the last line of your poem … leaf and needle pavement.

Have been loving these, Di. :)