The value of life

A few weeks ago I visited W B Yeats's grave and sat awhile in thought; no towers of adamant nor rings of steel, just a simple stone monument with the words, “Cast a cold eye/ On life, on death/Horseman pass by.”

A few hours later and a few miles south, I was in a bar on the Atlantic coast, drinking a pint of the blackest porter, eating crab claws fresh from the sea and soaking in garlic butter, and hammering away at my guitar in an impromptu folk music session. Pausing to check that the kids were still alive …