At thunder’s sullen grumble to the east
the clouds roll in, their dirty woollen grey
a blanket for a tramp. And you will say
“That’s it, that smell! It has a name. At least
I know I saw it on the internet
a while ago, so it’s A Thing for sure,
no Wikipedimeme!” There’ll be no cure
for curiosity; when you forget
this word you’ll wander Sainsbury’s, slightly high,
a-chanting three full lines (which just popped out
while walking there) as memo, mantra – why?
The rain distracts you, irrigates your thought
with slow warm dusty drops that fall
on concrete slabs, that smell, what is it called?
[ Author's note: kludgey sonnets a speciality. ]