‘You call that a poem?! I don’t call that a poem.’ A national flower in one country is a weed in another. ‘That’s prose.’ Would it help if I told you the French started this in modern times? ‘The French?! After what they did!’ No, before what they did. (May Gertrude press your tender buttons.) The seed grew in the Left Bank of Parnassus, blossomed all around the world, soil on its roots in ancient texts, tendrils running in European breath until Make it New! coloured the New World and imagery burst into sunlight, delight. ‘Give us a break, Andy, you’ve been sold a pup!’ A pup digging holes back to its roots. Mind the geraniums, daisies wilful and free.