I have just come back from a short break to Aberdaron, on the Llyn Peninsula in Wales. It was the parish of R.S. Thomas, a priest but also a poet whose work I love. The door of the church on the sea front was open and the only sound was of the waves. In front of me was a copy of his poem, "The Other" and I was moved to tears.There are nights that are so still<br>that I can hear the small owl<br>calling<br>far off and a fox barking<br>miles away. It is then that I lie<br>in the lean hours awake listening<br>to the swell born somewhere in<br>the Atlantic<br>rising and falling, rising and<br>falling<br>wave on wave on the long shore<br>by the village that is without<br>light<br>and companionless. And the<br>thought comes<br>of that other being who is<br>awake, too,<br>letting our prayers break on him,<br>not like this for a few hours,<br>but for days, years, for eternity.