A work in progress, not quite sure whether this quite works yet as the third
(main) stanza has a line I don't want to lose but interupts the pattern I
have established.  Daniel.

Lavendula Angustifolia,
its organic, don't you know?

The mists are languid -
where the wind blows soft
they often are.
The sun rises slowly -
it rises quickly only
at the brow of a hill.
The shadows are cool -
only in summertime
does a shadow fool

the sense that the valleys
cold and just a little bleak.

The parson's breath is mist -
his steps are languid,
his breath harsh against
the hill that climbs in cliffs -
most do, it's a Pennine trait
and he's a southerners' son.
He's following his daily rule -
they built the church up top
to ensure folk would be a flock

that rises from the valley depths
join together climbing hard stone steps.

Never a day, his office missed -
until they laid him to his rest
where the shadows rise fast
at the brow of a hill crowned -
south facing to ensure
that even in northern climbs
the fragrant lavender grows tall.

Nothing added, just well placed -
that was the way of it,
the way of it all.


Daniel Janes.
2001