There are still parts of Wales where the only concession to gaiety is a striped shroud.

Once you have heard the lark, known the swish of feet through hill-top grass and smelt the earth made ready for the seed, you are never again going to be fully happy about the cities and towns that man carries like a crippling weight upon his back.

But the beauty is in the walking -- we are betrayed by destinations.

I wanted a play that would paint the full face of sensuality, rebellion and revivalism.

I remember those happy days and often wish I could speak into the ears of the dead the gratitude which was due to them in life and so ill-returned.

A shroud has no pockets