On my solitary constitutionals around the local countryside, for some reason I cannot fathom, the poetry that comes flooding into my mind demanding to be written down when I get home before it disappears for good is always in French! Silly French, at that!
Que fallait-il faire
de la mouchoir jadis
quand les gens portaient
tout simplement, les peaux d’animaux ?
Fallait-il porter une sacoche?
Combien ça serait moche.
Fortunately, most of the words disappear before I get home. To remedy that, I’m making a pocket big enough to carry notebook and pen, thus adding to the reputation of “les fous anglais” hereabouts. I’ll try not to give you any more silly ones like the above!