He lives in a land of no colours,
Where a rose by any other name
Would still be grey.
His scenery is set with scent-shapes --
The intricate tendrils of musk,
The imposing slabs of men.
He can smell a willow at seventy-five yards.
His ear is so finely tuned he can hear insects
Tapping out six-eight time
And howl in protest at the miss-timed
Attack of the church bells