Churchyard   Maybe this wind knows something we don’t, daddy; a secret it hugs close and won’t share as it blows across the village churchyard and the vicar firms the edge of the freshly dug hole with her wellington boot, opens the labelled canister and tips you in. It’s the plastic Evian bottle that throws me, with which she rinses the caddy, swirling round the … Continue reading ‘Churchyard’ by Sue Hubbard