Before we go to the garden, a verse from a poem that could scarcely be less floral or Monty Don: Turning and turning in the widening gyreThe falcon cannot hear the falconer;Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhereThe ceremony of innocence is drowned;The best lack all conviction, while the worstAre full of passionate intensity. We’ll get to the garden; it’s why we’re here. But it is reassuring to know these words from WB Yeats were not written …
