by RON WILKINS
Out bush walking, suddenly, involuntarily, I stop.
Could I be half remembering some essential item left behind?
Rather, it feels as if there is another presence.
Something invisible, yet palpably existent.
No apprehension. No slithering in the undergrowth.
Just uncertainty about why I had stopped.
With the more discriminating sense of sight, I look about
to find I’m standing underneath a golden wattle, Acacia pycnantha.
Then the realisation that unwittingly, I have walked into a fall
of heavy perfume from its abundant sprays of fluffy balls.
Leaving me feeling drenched, but dry.
A fragrance like sandalwood, cedar, musk, cinnamon.
Why is the full sense of smell only conveyed by comparison?
The scent subtle, a serenade wafting on the breeze.
Tantalizing, like the caress of words on the emotions.
The music in words unsung.