What is this life? A sort of hell
If there is nothing we can smell.
No windblown air from salty seas
Or peaty moorland's heather breeze.
No whiff of bonfires' smoky trail,
No fresh ground coffee to inhale,
No waft of things we love to eat
Like bacon sizzling on the heat,
Hot curries, spicily expressed,
Wild strawberries and lemon zest;
No lilac, lavender or rose
To tempt the least receptive nose.
No sentimental pleasure in
The sweetness of a baby's skin.
A poor life this, if sad to tell
Pandemics take our sense of smell.
