Petrichor Poem by Mary Champion

Soft rain falls at last on the withered soil,
tenderly cleansing the face of the earth,
moisturising every avid pore,
washing the dust from leaves - rinsed for rebirth,
rousing them from heavy eyed drowsiness.
As the thirsting air is revitalized,
a subtle scent attends on my awareness.
Its signature perfume is realised,
when rain first falls on desiccated ground.
Sweet petrichor, the life-blood of the stones,
now flowing freely through their veins, unbound.
Baptismal rain, refreshes as it flows,
the land renewed, returned to brimming health -
sweet petrichor, the smell of life itself.