In the bundle from ’86 is a lyrical oddball I keep coming back to, and only last night before bed did I hear in it the low grumble of perverseness that makes for hymnodic delivery. The humming of graphic absurdities: a boy’s voice precisely at biting point, sunk in the choral gusto of lines about virgins and faint-prone flesh; strange words. And I quietly sang, in breaths, these possibly holy two verses. I will call it ‘Milkwort’ [trad. unknown.], and – thou cross-legged assembled children – let’s now build together to give up that final rejoiceful line; tipping the spinstered organ into something quite triumphant.