I am in a stuffy room in a poorly maintained building which is, like so many poorly maintained buildings, intended to be a community resource. I am sitting in a rectangle of shabby desks and seats with a group of visually impaired young people – they are making a video about being visually impaired. Their choice. The filming has been completed, we are at the end of another very long day, full of unexpected technical challenges and small triumphs – we are now all tired, hot, and battering at the long prose poem which will make up our narration. It isn't quite right. It needs one more word which – if we're being technical – has to be an amphibrach. We aren't being technical. We're writing. We are spending a good deal of time saying du-DA-du – which feels right. It could be built out of one, or two, or three words, we don't know and we wouldn't mind which – the rhythm is the thing. The sense and the rhythm – we need them both. We have the rest of the sentence, the rest of the piece … we tap the rhythm. We repeat the rhythm. We think the rhythm. We sit. We continue to be tired and hot. And then, here comes the word. We can almost feel it – there is a sense, in fact, of it falling, beautifully and effectively, into the head of a dark-haired young man – who, as it happens, hasn’t been too committed to the wordy side of the project – and then emerges, as we might say, wearing his voice. It is confident and his and itself and ours and the perfect word, the one that sits well in the sentence and in our spines – regardless.