Spring, a time for lambs in the fields skipping in the sun. Hirst’s sheep will never skip again. It seems caught in mid-cavort, the one that got away, merrily running through the meadows when ... What? The death that took it seems to have been so sudden it never knew. Now it plays for ever, stilled in formaldehyde, still seeming alive because no one told it about death Illustration: Murdo Macleod
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