Description

Two hundred and fifty years ago this year – this year being 2020 – a man dangled on the end of a rope, kicking at the wind, his last few seconds of frightened consciousness spent listening to the blood screaming in his ears. Then a merciful and hushed blackness reigned. His working boots, tramping boots, heavy boots turned pendulum to plumb line. The crowd had cheered, justice had been gawped at. Then, curiosity sated, the rabble shuffled off, amusement done, away from the Tyburn Tree on York's Knavesmire to go about its business, and to think-on.