Category Archives: Salt

June 23, 2026 · 9:03 pm

Old Salt – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

For Tanka Tuesday Poetry Challenge No. 70, The Lai, Melissa has invited us to use the syllabic form the lai (pronounced lay) which is a French form that is comprised of nine lines. It has “a” and “b” end rhymes and each line has a specific syllable count.

The rhyme scheme of the lai is as follows: aabaabaab. The lines ending with an “a” rhyme have five syllables and the lines ending with a “b” rhyme have two syllables.

BERJAYA

Photo: taken at Lake Campion in April 2025, this lake is part of an extensive ancient salt lake system across the eastern wheatbelt and through the goldfields, today it would have one name but the colonial explorers thought there were several interrelated autonomous lakes. This lake system is still harvested for domestic and agricultural salt use.

Form: Lai (nine lines aabaabaab; a lines have 5 syllables, b lines have 2 syllables)

Old Salt

Vast inland salt lake
harvested for flake
to grind,
please don’t drink can’t slake,
risk of burn no fake
of mind,
of this what to make
it’s no piece of cake,
my bind.

Copyright 2026 ©️Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®️

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Filed under bush walking, camping, clouds, Country, Lai, nature, poem, Salt, salt lake

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January 7, 2026 · 10:48 pm

Sweet Salt – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon

At dVerse Dora is hosting Poetics with an invitation to write a poem in the way Elizabeth Bishop would write, for more detail, follow the link below:

dVerse Poets – Poetics – Borrowing Bishop

BERJAYA

Photo: Augusta, the south-west corner, taken in winter 2023.

Sweet Salt

Even before the river mouth
summer’s air is heavy wet
battering my flesh sticky 
with sweet salt that thickens 
my throat with a cough,
sea grass is rotting under 
bright intense heat, 
some of which refracts off
the talc like sand smelling 
of salt and kelp, absorbing 
the scree of gulls and terns
in its dense depths that only
waves roaring can defeat,
pushing, pumping water
into the air, rusting boats
and shop front awnings
with acid precision, 
window cleaners busy, busy,
rounding the last bend
the southerly stirs my 
eyes to water and wafts
the fish and chip shop 
in a yearning for battered,
salted fish and golden 
crunch chips, and my walk
becomes brisker more
intentional.

Copyright 2025 ©️Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®️

34 Comments

Filed under Augusta, beach, Free Verse, ocean, poem, river, Salt, sea

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