The churchyard in front of the church that is also my daughter's dance school is both well tended and untended. There are beds of nicely arranged irises and other flowers, and there are neatly trimmed shrubs lining the walk, and, in the corners that are not meant to be gardens, there are weeds. I have never understood how anyone could call something so pretty as this a weed. If I were religious, I would call it a gift, but I am not, so I will simply grant it flower: wild, weedy fleabane is one of the flowers in my neighbourhood.