The burnt house had a smell so divine,
That I thought I had lost a bit of sense with time.
Burnt were books, burnt were toys,
Burnt were clothes that brought simple joys.
Looked at every nook and corner,
My thoughts galloping around the trauma,
But the divine smell nagged and nagged
Leaving me feeling quite scragged.
Just then a little winged angel,
Detoured on its flight path and landed on the charred mantel.
Over the days, just where on the mantel fell the sun’s rays
She built a nest with straws and fagged displays.
Dawned on me with a jolt sublime,
The smell in the house was of love, joy and kindness
that still ruled over all the grime.