William Clarke & His Dog
I want to please William even as he tells me to hush, to settle in the grass. He lifts his rifle and I do, I settle in the grass; his breath says it’s time. The deer’s tapered nose barely bothers the air, its body dense with youth.
I wait for the almighty but boom doesn’t come, and now beast is on us, a man of swinging limb and whinny no rights the law the law the law and I bark-bay-bite but catch only cloth. My Failure! A stick meets my face and William screams and screams,
not for being caught you understand, but for me, for me, for– in the black I hear nothing, however the very moment I wake in hurried arms, under cover of nearby field maple, I smell it… the almighty.
William is hanged two days later. I’m in Strugglers’ Inn where no soul pays me heed. Customers deem him calm, though I hear caught-breath panic and smell all-change as he falls; William my William sees me watching sees my ghost.
Centuries later I’m still here, waiting for his. Long have I listened to prattle, song, quiz, lately something called TickingTock, watching ale enthusiasts scribble notes until the insightful few who after six beers see me and – joy of joys! – offer me a Scampi Fry.
William Clarke was hanged in Lincoln Castle in 1877 for shooting a gamekeeper while poaching. His dog was taken in by the owners of the nearby Strugglers’ Inn.
