When poetry is hard ...

Mia had so bewitched him that Olly felt compelled, for the first time in his young life, to write a poem.

Giddy with emotions, he took to his bed and began: “Mia, my love, Mia, my …”

He paused, chewing his pen.

Above … shove … glove … “Dove!” he said aloud, jotting it down.

Wait. Aren’t doves just white pigeons? Mia’s no pigeon! He vigorously crossed out “dove”.

Poetry was hard.

Two hours later, disquieted by his inability to articulate his feelings, Olly went with plan B and cycled to a nearby petrol station.

There he found a nice bunch of flowers, reasonably priced, too.

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