Yesterday, Sunday, a lazy day for an easy drive out over the smoke-blue haze of a tablelands autumn until a flash of headlights broke the spell to tell us an accident so bad, up ahead, we’d better find another way.   Working the gravel of another route, among the poplar-golds, their plumes in spilling cascades, a quiet, sober riot of praise, the hessian-brown of last season’s grasses, the noiseless sheep,   how could one not think of what now was fact on that other road? The miscalculation, the bewildering instant, then the grievous, unalterable invasion. That somewhere there, just like…