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August 30th 2009

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    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.

    It 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 graves.  

   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 have suffered.

 

    

   

     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 empty space.

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tim candler

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