Natty watched with steady interest as the dead poet wove together words like thread, one of those words being Natty's. A modest contribution. But a most interesting result.

Eventually, the living fellow turned his gaze away, instead looking over the nearest gravestones and wondering if any belonged to the ghost. Then he was engaged again, and looked up. "Yes, a fine day indeed", he was able to agree. "The frost is welcome." The air was so cold it almost hurt. That was the sort of thing Natty sought today.

"Who is she?" He asked who the poem was about. None of his business, perhaps... but he wanted to know. And would never know if he did not at least ask.