Synaesthesia

I love the smell of  old books
they remind me of tall wooden shelves
the colour of burnt gold,
the last rays of the sun,
 the room by the old neem.

The freshly cut grass
after the rains smells green
a brilliant blue sky
and a passel of clouds
calls to the season
of jasmine and shells.

A smear of yellow
on her arms and cheek.
A dash of brilliant
vermillion follows
the dazzle of gold,
the glow of youth.
The starry eyed brightness
of apprehension
slowly grows.

A silver haze of memories
like sequins on a lace
painstakingly woven.
the sheer plethora of colours
sounds and scent
overwhelm her senses.

The jingle of her bangles,
a tinkle on her feet,
a flash of red and green,
vanishes round the corner.
a whiff of mint and rose,
linger on in the air,
wind in her long black hair,
She has trapped my senses.