Vox Meditantis

London, 1658. The bells have ceased. In a damp churchyard near Newgate, a young parish clerk finds a stranger sitting alone on a stone bench, carving a small figure from a scrap of pearwood. At the stranger’s feet, an ancient lurcher sleeps. The clerk should lock the vestry and go home. He does not go home. What passes between these two men in the failing August light is quiet, rough-hewn, and devastating. A scene about mercy, and the strange, unaccountable ways in which one creature chooses another. The eyes are very good. The ear is wrong. There is wood enough.

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