The truth is, the modern world we live in does not appreciate poetry. Not like it ought to, not like you and I do. We get it. We eagerly await that new journal or book of poems, smuggle it like contraband into our grey morning commute.
'The season of mist and mellow fruitfulness' may well be beckoning but the apples 'bending the moss'd cottage-trees' in Keats' celebration of autumn are sadly absent in many gardens and orchards across the UK.