A stiff breeze gives some small jerk of life to the swings; the jogger puffs his third lap as I huddle into my coat, turning my face from his spume and splutter. I consider the wisdom of my walk; am I risking myself or improving my chances? Does the benefit outweigh my fear? I decide it does, and timing my sudden motion to avoid the runner, I cross the park, follow the hedgerow and find the gate, passing into the sanctity of the churchyard. The irony strikes home: some day, no matter what we do, we will all rest here.