A carved Shakespeare head. Several, in fact, set into a balustrade of an old house that was being torn apart for remodelling, maybe even demolition. I forget. It’s all just more wood to break down and get out of the way to some.
But one of the demolitionists saw it differently. He didn’t see something in the way of the job. He saw a long-dead tree someone had cut into the shape of a poet and built into their house. In a town close to Stratford-upon-Avon, no less.
He didn’t see refuse. He saw salvage. He was one of us.
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