But at my back I always hear Daisy’s snuffling drawing near and nosing me to go outside or get her food or move along until one day I am nosed off the great edge of time and have gone. Thanks Daisy, I say. I am cross with her. Don’t worry, Daisy says, time is not like that. Down here, where things are small, it doesn’t even exist. It’s only up there, in your stories and poems, that you have tricked yourself into thinking that things move and flow. Nothing much is moving down here, she adds, somewhat gruffly. I peer down into her granular world. And what is the connection, I ask, intrigued, between this world where nothing moves and all this flow and direction? Daisy nudges me with her nose.