Magic Carpet

I lumber aboard with all the grace
of a lump of wood, nerves bark-rough
at the strangeness of it all.
I hide my face in pristine towelling,
flinch as gentle fingers kiss my shoulders
whispering of the journey that awaits.
Where would the scents send me?
Zinging to citrus groves where grapefruit, lemon,
tangerine bombard me with sunbeams;
flitting through English country gardens
courtesy of rose and geranium
or heading for the Med, with its lavender and basil?
Maybe a Viking voyage
to nostril-pinging pine forests,
the rhythm of ancient oars in the therapist’s moves;
or the Orient of ylang ylang and patchouli,
with its smoky mystery?
She has more vials than Ali Baba had jars.
We talked about which oils to use, and why,
but I forget my choices, simply wallow
in the experience, each uncoiling muscle
just a tuft in the rug that magics me away;
every breath a jewelled hue of its pattern,
flashing colours behind my closed lids.
Session over, I ooze from the table,
wondering how soon Scheherazade
can tell another tale.