FOUND IN: Uncategorized on July 06, 2014
A bewitched view of lavender carpets extend into the horizon. Clear, crisp, dry air brushes the forehead as sunset approaches. Red-topped tile village homes dot the hillside beyond. This is not what I see.
There are rows of it here, planted in last year's brutal summer. I did not expect it to live considering the conditions are not likely a favorite of this Mediterranean herb. Crouching on all fours, close to soil, taking a picture to illustrate the view reveals a different landscape. Sand. Pine trees. Flat land.
Silver foliage parts fingers as hands move slowly across the tops of tiny bushes. A smell described as sweet, floral, and herbal with balsamic undertones wafts upward. I close my eyes. Now I am there.
The passing aroma of a well healed Englishman with a heavy stride walks along Piccadilly Circus.
A tiny satchel awaits the tired guest, the first to pull the dresser drawer knobs.
Light purple bouquets fill the table at the Notting Hill Gate Farmer Market.
They are memories, fleeting moments. I owe their return to the smell.