All kinds of paths are inscribed into the landscape. I see the tracks I have left across a field. Daisy too has her path. All winter long it looks like she has trotted down the garden just alongside the fence. Now I can see the path she has left – a narrow impression like a herd of sheep might have shuffled through. It’s your line of poetry, isn’t it Daisy? I say, with a wink. But the trick is to know when to turn it! Should it stop here or here or here? I walk down the garden indicating points where Daisy might consider turning her line. It seems that you, Daisy, I continue, have directed yourself straight into the fence! Now Daisy attempts a wink of her own. That’s just the kind of poetry I write, she says. And she takes up her position at the end of the line and growls at the dog next door.