I once attended a meeting of an amateur writers’ group which was being held in a local museum. Simultaneously there was an exhibition focused on Dorothy Wordsworth- William Wordsworth’s sister- being shown. The subject of the meeting was a critical appreciation of Dorothy Wordsworth’s diaries. All the participants expressed nothing but soap, syrupy praise for Wordsworth and it felt a bit contrived and disingenuous. Empty. Much emphasis was placed on the allegedly strong relationship between Wordsworth and her famous brother. The whole time I was wanting to say “I bet he hated his sister” but I refrained and remained cordial and compliant. This poem focuses on the unconditional praise thrust upon Wordsworth’s legacy and the frustration with which I observed “wilting heresies from the extremities”.