Beneath the violet-coloured sky, a violet-coloured field exhaled its perfumed breath,
its scent as known to all as English garden prose, as heralded for loveliness.
It vowed to work-worn maid, domestic sweetness, and to doomed crusader, fragrant death.
A prim bouquet of purple blooms as strong and true as milky tea with governess.
So commonplace its charm, so near, so dear, ubiquitous its spell to have under
The one, the all, these three, to have beneath the sky, betwixt the stems of lavender.

~ Ours was a lavender marriage ~

We walked beneath a plum-wine sky and drank too deep of heady fields of lavender
and hand in hand in hand decided path too short for other’s rules to live under.
Let true affection guide our steps, said we, not nurs’ry governess with milky tea,
and so, we laid beneath the sky and strew about bouquets of little, fragrant deaths
and wondered, as we wished our craft of three a maiden voyage calm on tumult sea,
how long had we to reap this love, to exhale sweet perfume and never catch our breaths.