Eau de Lancashire
The fragrances the French perfumers fail
To use are English woodland scents. Of course
Wild garlic isn’t fancied by those frail
And dainty Gallic noses. Still the gorse
Should suit their sensibilities because
Its blossoms smell of coconut, and if
Dior could capture coppice moss which thaws
In spring, the fresh parfum could hold a whiff
Of beauty Paris might be jealous of—
And if combined with hazel and with ash
In essences, the scent would offer love.
Perhaps the smell of smoke up from a gash
In burning wood there from a campfire in
Our dreams will drift a lovely hint of sin.
