Our kindly neighbour telephones from Brittany.
All’s well. He’s mown our lawn. He lacks our company.
One difficulty only (it’s the same each year):
‘Your plumping rosebuds have been gobbled by the deer.’

The first-world problem of a second home in France:
I’m tempted to reverse my anti-hunting stance.
The liberties those creatures take when we’re away!
A locked-down Londoner, ‘in city pent’, I say,

‘Why can’t wild animals find something else to eat?
There’s all that grass; what makes my roses such a treat?’
I sense his Gallic shrug. ‘I’m sorry for your waste.
Hélas, it seems French roe deer have exquisite taste.’