Quintessence – Word of the Day
Spider Orchids: West Australian native orchids, Eastern Wheatbelt.
Fleeting soul,
so delicate in this harsh and unforgiving soil.
that has spurned the paltry rains that dared to fall here.
The quintessence of beauty, shy, peeking out
midst the blackbutt and broken acacia,
dancing tween the rocks,
who could not love you?
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Leda Reserve: The West Australian wild flower season has been one of the best – good winter rainfall out in these parts (never guaranteed) and plenty of sunlight since – acres and acres, kilometre after kilometre a joy to behold, stunning.
Paul,
pvcann.com
Filed under bush walking, nature
Face filled with history,
sixty odd years have passed in this house,
his mother’s table still by the wood stove,
just as it was when she was here.
The bakelite radio muttering indiscernible words,
monotone monologue of worlds at once
important and irrelevant.
Detritus and stains,
no one worried about the stains,
or the yellowed newspapers piled at one end,
tales from years past,
the spanner for the separator,
that old can opener
and a dirty spoon and dish,
tell-tales of forgotten soap,
the smells of kitchens past.
He shifts to spy the time,
chair creaking,
the clock ticking his hours down.
The smoke stained paint
momentarily haunting his memory
of days when it was fresh and gleaming.
His mother died last year,
and his true love before that,
though, she never actually arrived,
she passed in his mind,
as so many things do.
Routine his only salvation,
to sit and keep watch,
a solitary sentinel,
just as she was.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Base camp in the Stirlings, such a fun time.
I sense no grief in leaving the city,
my stress melts as country arrives,
as bitumen gives way to gravel,
as houses surrender to trees,
even the rain is welcome out here.
We make do,
we don’t do,
we do what we want to do,
carefree for days.
Only the sound of the fire intrudes
as we toast the moon,
and utensils give way to reverie
then thoughts of the morrow.
And as we must, one day soon,
take our leave of ancient friends,
I sense a deep sorrow in my going.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Photo: pexels.com
Across the trench I see you readying to make a move,
the flares go up, a sure sign,
a prelude to a barrage,
the whoosh of shells and chatter of guns,
staccato, a painful beauty.
The shouting,
the frenzy,
down comes the wire,
the whites of their eyes,
that moment of surrender.
And, just as soon, comes the silence,
as before, so afterwards,
ordnance expended, tension eased.
Now we hold each other prisoner
the distance is closed,
an alliance begins,
in this tortuous war we call love,
where no one wins
and everyone loses together.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Last week we spent a couple of days on the wildflower run, and at Leda Reserve, apart from the stunning array of flowers I was enthralled with this gem as well, a gargoyle perched on a rock – can you see it too? This one was clearly sent to protect Leda.
La Gargouille, terror of Rouen,
you lost your head When Romanus made the sign,
and now you sit in judgement of your kin,
though, instead of fire, you spout water,
La Gargouille, protector of Rouen.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Note: Gargoyles date back to ancient Egypt, but the term gargoyle comes from the dragon slaying story of c. 600 AD where the priest Romanus captures the Dragon – La Gargouille, which was terrorising the town of Rouen, and the villagers cut off its head and burn it at the stake. However the head wouldn’t burn, so instead they place Gargouille’s head on the church to ward off evil and warn other dragons to stay away.
Paul,
pvcann.com
Filed under bush walking, Country, Five Lines, history, Mythology, poetry
Photo: pexels.com
It was the same every morning,
he raked the coals
and urged the kettle on.
Forlorn the stained enamel mug waited
for the sacrament of tea,
as he washed over the basin,
knowing the day ahead.
the exact times of fences and sheep.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvann.com
Photo: pexels.com
Warm as the night was
you shivered as I drew you closer,
and we descended into a maelstrom,
waves washing over us,
so fierce,
yet so gentle.
Carefully we chartered a course
and found a safe harbour,
devouring our storm,
now utterly spent,
sated.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Hyacinth Bucket, the quintessential snob and taciturn type – from “Keeping Up Appearances”
I saw you over in the corner,
away from the hum of the parlour debate
where opinion passed as fact,
your anxiety hidden by a cool poise
that some thought was an air of snobbery,
your stance aloof.
But I knew you wanted to run away,
to hide,
avoiding the ignoble prattle
of the wine glass heroes
that violated every sense.
You wanted to find a safe space,
that included all you hold dear,
and fill it with creative visions of joy.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Paul,
pvcann.com
Filed under life, poetry, psychology
Photo: http://www.medievalfantasieco.com
Complete,
needing no one,
guarding every fibre of your being,
impenetrable,
your body chained,
protected against the words
that might one day creep under your maille,
and steal your distance,
bring you close
and expose the wound of love
you cannot bear to feel.
©Paul Vincent Cannon
Note: Chainmail is derived from the French ‘Maille’ which is in turn derived from the Latin ‘Macula’ (meaning mesh or net). Chainmail is thought to have been invented by the Celts before the 5th century AD.
Paul,
pvcann.com
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