Fifty years in the village and not for her the bleak crematorium chapel in a distant town. No faceless cleric who would not know her. No dreary hymns and mumbled responses. And no sombre suits.
Persuasive to the end, she has her service in the ancient parish church – much admired for its honeyed stone and glowing stained glass but rarely attended. Poetry, prose, songs, tributes – and the vicar, happily dressed down in chinos and short sleeves, intoning Buddhist prayers . . .
choosing a memento
the rock crystal bodhisattva
that catches the sun