The window is closing on lavender cuttings. Ninety percent of those
I took early August have succumbed to 'hardware store'. Rather than sprightliness
I have mushroom, and my heart hurts.
is a frustration that meanders into daily thought and I find myself raging
at the armchair-bound who now drink Champaign at my expense. I
will go muddy toed into their world and steal their children away with
whispers. I will shower them with vacant promises and make them dig
And yet the fault is
mine. It belongs to foolishness. It belongs to idleness.
To arrogance, hubris and pride. I have become a Victorian and my own
So I hang my head in ritual and
attempt the stiff upper lip as I wander past those remaining babies of
lavender. Nor does it help them to know that of last years
successfully weaned lavender plants there are just two remaining. One
was killed by a mole hunter. Three were killed by moles. Two
died of damp. Four died of cold.
The answer, my friend, is not blowing in
the wind. The answer is in the soil. So this time I will take
the cutlass with me into the world of lavender and I will be fiercely pure
as I recall that around a graveside there are no deeds, just the sound of