(with apologies to A.B. Paterson) Summer’s saved seeds are laid in the diminishing sun upon headlines, stocks, sport— news guaranteed to desiccate. Into an envelope they rattle 3 ticks for taste, same for smell to sleep through Northern autumn kept from winter’s frosts or the slower death of compost. But no! To my hemispheres a modern madness flies on spec, I address the envelope:            The Postmaster/mistress            Nar Nar Goon            Victoria 3812 adding next to the ticks “To whom it may concern to plant” Season-skipper, deracinator I tramp to my village P.O. through mist silently apologising for the…