The transitory, short lived;
L’éphémere seeks all
attaining access to the realm
with unwitting permission whence
in certain moments of lucidity and
union of environs, import is perceived
We are but skipping stones,
Smacking dazzling fast moving elements;
flying in splinters of light to land again and again
and sample so briefly each moment before
finally disappearing beneath the waves
to join the succeeding in fast moving waters
To begin again and again
To await and fashion the hand of destiny
Creation, Adventure, Love
Ever thankful for the moment.
- Philip Ross Munro
This body of work is dedicated to the memory of my Mother who read to me historic tales written by Geoffrey Trease. She bade me read.
Last year, I selected Trelawny, Adventures of the Younger Son from her Library. She laughed and asked ‘Had I not read him before now?’
Her mind, ever brilliant identified myself, her younger son, with the younger son, Edward Trelawny, who set out on an obliged search for self in a world of strife: filled with romanticism, ideals and denial of the consequences he went.
I, too, went, not at her bidding however with her permission.
The world opened itself to loves, battles & struggles in surprising,
stupifyingly exciting arenas.
The result of the culmination of all these is much as was Trelawney’s: a life well lived in adventure, travel, creativity and expression - blessed with the spirit of communication and fortunate to have found a life of exploration and discoveries to share.
The sailor in his proper element lives in the present. There is nothing he can do about the past and having regard to the uncertainty of the omnipotent ocean and the weather very little about the future.
- Patrick O’Brian
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes
By the deep sea, and music in it’s roar:
I love not man the less but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet can not well conceal.
‘Hark! ‘tis the rushing of a wind that sweeps
Earth and the Ocean. See the lightning yawn
Deluging heaven with fire, and the lashed deeps
Glitter and boil beneath.’
- Percy Shelley