The Place of Scent

The Place of Scent

Then I went to where scent discovers all its harmonies.

Here is the dark red perfume of the rose; the drowsy quiet of bean-fields in the dusk; the gentle death of autumn in deep woods; and the clean smell of ploughland after rain.

The friendly wood-smoke of a cooking-fire; the satisfying smell of baking bread; the earth-forgotten green of new-cut grass; the moon-drunk sweetness of night-blooming flowers.

The warmth of clover murmurous with bees; the sleepy peace of avenues of limes; the tuberose’s languorous caress; the chill austerity of alpine flowers.

The yellow warmth of primroses at noon; the scent of water running over stones; the lonely sorrow of the river mist; the smooth white smell of linen, and of snow.

The dusty wisdom of papyrus rolls; and the warm spice of cedarwood and myrrh; the hot impatient smell of spikenard; and tarnished silver’s half-remembered dreams.

The clear sharp energy of lemon rind; the lovers’ ecstasy of orange trees; the melancholy smell of winter nights; and hyacinth’s azure echo of the spring.

The salty challenge of wind-driven spray – that wander-urging message of the sea; the gentle memories of sun-dried flowers the still abandonment of fields at noon.

The moth-winged purple of new gathered grapes; the easy laughter of a jar of beer; the excitement of a gallop-sweated horse; and the proud splendour of the manes of lions.

The acrid keenness of a copper sword; and the brave smell of torches in the wind; the musky pomp of ceremonial robes; and the solemnity of bitumen.

Here can our nostrils so delight our hearts that we forget colour and are blind to sound.

- Joan Grant, from Winged Pharaoh 1937

photo: Los Olivos, California  Lura Astor

Petals

the flutter of the white winged moths to street lights made a snowfall in July, perhaps their natural predators had been damaged in the chemical spray tests.

To my child's eye they were a delight, an awe, a beauty. I heard the adults talk about tree leaf damage. I loved the trees. But I loved the once in a lifetime flutter of those white angel winged petals of snow, a blizzard in July's dark humidity.

I knew then what I know now, Nature's fecundity cannot be stopped, though it can rechannel. Our natural predators now? The morphs and the hybrids? Within our own psyche and without, these predators do battle with our natural protectors of our personal fecundity, our helix of creativity, our lushness even in barren landscapes, including those damaged by chemical tests and faulty logic, or a mouthpiece severed from the heart.

As the heart bridges the head, speech and speed with grounding, moving continuity, find petals in a bottle of fragrance, a cup of tea, the wind playing leaves like a xylophone.
 
Our heart's butterfly migrations take us home, we leave again to explore, home again, leaving to explore. Petals of rhythm, heartbeat braille, samba fire, milonga melt, skinflesh drumtalk, again and again we home to the light in any humid darkness.
 
As we create pathways through this funny time, it is up to us and our imaginations, it is up to us. Flap away ...

Painting: Petals Lura Astor