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It was a foggy morning. The people of Bradford were busy at their
places of work. Retired William Andrews was planting strawberries
and whistled a tune. A train entered the railroad station. Birds
sang on the old, gnarled limetree next to the gallows and waited.
They were hungry.
The bar at the local pub was packed. The men there were all unemployed
and spent their time drinking. They drank and laughed. Only one
was missing again today: Mike Peters. As usual, when he decided
not to drown his sorrows in a glass, he was at his favorite spot.
His favorite spot was the hill with the gallows. He sat on a barrel,
which often had done its duty, by the old limetree that has witnessed
many executions and that was distorted as if it had suffered from
the many hangings.
Generally, the people of Bradford avoided the macabre place for
they did not want to have anything to do with it. Mike Peters
was the exception. But he wasn't really from Bradford anyway.
When his parents died he decided to wander around the world but
got stuck in this town. Whenever the fog covered the hill so that
no one could see the top, he visited the gallows. There, surrounded
by fog, he felt comfortable.
Fascinated, he stared at the used, worn-out rope that slightly
moved back and forth in the wind. The fog prevented him from seeing
the town at the bottom of the hill. The town in which he didn't
really want to stay at. He knew that he was attracted to the gallows,
which was a threat to his life which he imagined to turn out differently
and that he hoped would be different. Therefore he wanted to move
on soon. Now he was all alone and caught up in thoughts: "How
would it feel to have that rope around his neck?". He contemplated
how he then would be one with the gallows. The gallows as his
dear friend.
To just put the noose around his neck once. Maybe tighten it a
little...
He got up and rolled the barrel over underneath the scaffolding.
He looked around one more time - all just thick fog. The limetree
stood straight. In spite of the wind its leaves didn't move and
one could not hear a sound. He stood on the shaky barrel and grabbed
the rope. Something made a thud in the high grass.
He felt as if he was floating. He sensed a soft, even pressure
around the neck. How levitated he felt. Fog clouds were creeping
around the hill.
The next morning William Andrews wanted to check on his strawberries
and stepped out into the garden towards slight fog. He discovered
the pieces of a shattered barrel in the strawberry patch (William
Andrews lives at the bottom of the gallows hill). They had caused
only minor damage among the fresh plants. The barrel must have
crashed at considerable speed, it could only have rolled down
from the hill, he thought to himself. Slightly annoyed at the
mess in his garden, he threw the wood on a wood pile for heating
purposes. He thought about how the barrel could have been set
in motion. The wind seemed like the only explanation. He looked
up to the hilltop. Light fog surrounded it. He knew that old gallows
were up there but couldn't see them from down here.
It was a foggy morning. The people of Bradford were busy at their
places of work. Retired William Andrews was planting strawberries
and whistled a tune. A train entered the railroad station. Birds
sang on the old, gnarled limetree next to the gallows and got
ready to fly. Today they wouldn't have to be hungry.
Copyright © 1979, Wasty, On The Gallows
German title: Sympathie für den Galgen
56 lines
Reading time: approx. 4 1/2 minutes
  
Last updated February 12, 2001 by Martin Mathis, e-mail lastbandit.com
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