Wm. setting off for Yorkshire, cold pork in his pockets for dinner, Dorothy, heartbroken, walking beside the rippled lake until her mind feels calm again. The crab apple coming into blossom, the new houses she tries to juggle from her sight looking towards Rydale Mount, a yellow flower she hadn't seen before: a type of ranunculus. She writes it in her journal, background detail for another of his poems. I look ranunculus up, lulled by the straight lines, the steady columns of strange words blossoming into sense. (Inspired by Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journals, 1800 -1803)