In the early hours of May twenty-fifth, when the tender Spring sun begins its pull through the morning sky and the light starts kissing away the frost from all those blades of grass on the highlands and the daffodils in the town as well, a priest hangs.
His cassock delights in the movement from the northern winds as they tempt the man into a dance. Gently, with the breeze, he sways. And the tips of his buffed brogues brush the…
