On the slopes of Mont Ventoux, lavender was picked
 In mid-July, when it was fully ripe,
 When its sweet scent rippled over the moor
 And that the great weather was almost certain.
 The women all seemed wrapped up
 With their apron raised at the waist
 To form a large bag. The children who laughed
 Olives were thrown at each other as shrapnel.
 VALERIE GIRARD