The silence of the streets, the stillness of Irish villages this Easter Week is a necessity. We all get that. But there have been other times when the clatter of the villages has been stilled, when low level anxiety spreads like some mournful miasma and sadness drips like rain from a broken gutter. Everyday times like when the post office door shuts for the last time. Martin Dyar captured it all in his poem Death and The Post Office. It is funny and tragic and takes the form of avuncular advice. A top civil servant is attempting to inoculate those…

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