The mother nodded faintly. “And poets? Are they men?”

The daughter looked up this time. “No. They’re clouds wearing trousers. They hide behind strong women. They let them carry life and then go searching for verses in the ashes.”

The mother laughed then. A real laugh. Short, smoky, with a little bile in it, a little tenderness too. “Say that to any of those men who used to come through here pretending to be great artists.”