Ian Pople, 8 April 1993
The sun was tucked behind the visor as I was driving back from work; the road reached round from house
to house. A horse was grazing an out-of-season cricket pitch. They were leading sheep down
to the reservoir; hooves slipped from the bank to crumpled sky; fleecy heads bobbed out towards the middle.
The parish boundaries widen every year; another heart attack, another priest who’s...