the scent of rain
The air washes over me thick and heavy. On my tongue the odour of rich fertility mingles with the fermenting sugars of soft, rotting death. The warm air is drenched in the sweet stench of summer, soaked in the dripping scent of excess, rising on my every breath. I inhale the raindrops before they fall, threatening sulkily, bustling impatiently behind the thick, grey clouds, and I think how curious it is that any future can be so certain as this.
It seems strange to me that these moments, these tentative, weighted moments before the summer storm should smell so specific, so unique, so loaded. It is as though the sultry melange of those particular odours, of heat and clouds and moisture, of dryness and sweet-smelling mortality, of the double-sided potential for destruction and creation resound within us like thunder, echoing along the channels of our ancient hearts, reverberating in the chasm of our metaphysical gut, there for the reptilian within to seize upon, to recognise and grasp, and be proved useful, worthwhile.
If I strain my inner ear I can just make out the workings of this process. The warmth at the back of my mouth, the damp smell in my nose, the hot sleepiness behind my eyes, the sultry slink that takes hold of my legs, the languid certainty of my stride, the deep and distant rumblings from far below the corporeal surface: the manifest reflection of without first takes rise within, precedes its superior, takes claim of titular originality.
The storm is being shaped by enormous heavenly hands, being crafted, its elements drawn together, scraped into a vast ball of potential, a powerful, crackling sphere of raw creation, fit to be unleashed: a weapon of the gods, a testament to their Olympian resolve.
It is the smell of life, of growth, of sleep. It is the odour of youth and death and sex.
~ the storytelling of ravens ~
The air washes over me thick and heavy. On my tongue the odour of rich fertility mingles with the fermenting sugars of soft, rotting death. The warm air is drenched in the sweet stench of summer, soaked in the dripping scent of excess, rising on my every breath. I inhale the raindrops before they fall, threatening sulkily, bustling impatiently behind the thick, grey clouds, and I think how curious it is that any future can be so certain as this.
It seems strange to me that these moments, these tentative, weighted moments before the summer storm should smell so specific, so unique, so loaded. It is as though the sultry melange of those particular odours, of heat and clouds and moisture, of dryness and sweet-smelling mortality, of the double-sided potential for destruction and creation resound within us like thunder, echoing along the channels of our ancient hearts, reverberating in the chasm of our metaphysical gut, there for the reptilian within to seize upon, to recognise and grasp, and be proved useful, worthwhile.
If I strain my inner ear I can just make out the workings of this process. The warmth at the back of my mouth, the damp smell in my nose, the hot sleepiness behind my eyes, the sultry slink that takes hold of my legs, the languid certainty of my stride, the deep and distant rumblings from far below the corporeal surface: the manifest reflection of without first takes rise within, precedes its superior, takes claim of titular originality.
The storm is being shaped by enormous heavenly hands, being crafted, its elements drawn together, scraped into a vast ball of potential, a powerful, crackling sphere of raw creation, fit to be unleashed: a weapon of the gods, a testament to their Olympian resolve.
It is the smell of life, of growth, of sleep. It is the odour of youth and death and sex.
~ the storytelling of ravens ~
The storm we had yesterday was awesome, and I was out getting wet in it for over 3 hours
Love and kisses
Michelle xx