From beneath the paupers bridge he looked upwards, outwards, away, to the hill up on high, across cobbled stone and busy street, up to the Hangman's Tree, and from there, beneath the paupers bridge, he thought of the days long gone, before his Lord had cobbled the roads and busied the lands. He thought of himself as a boy, sat on the embankment, looking upwards, outwards, away, to the hill up on high, as a gaggle of youths danced and played around the Lovers tree, and hand in hand etched their names into its bark. The Lovers Tree, the Hangman’s Tree, had never known his name, had never hidden his secrets, had never held his love. He counts the coins in his tin cup, listens as they shake, listens as the crowds gossip and collude, listens as the children play and dance and sing, listens as the guilty wail and cry and beg, listens as chair is kicked away and the rope becomes taught and the wails cease, gossipers cease, singers cease, as a broken deathrattle echoes downwards, outwards, away, from the hill up on high down, below, to the Paupers Bridge.