Upon a time, once, long ago, in a place that I know not, a hooded child (in a crimson coat) through forest paths did trot…
A blade a-bound by belt off-cuts abreast her left-side hip, her left hand on the pommel, placed above th’blue-banded grip.
Nurtured’s the roots of grass that grows again.
As the sunlight stole away, the counter-culture quarter lit the dusk.
Waves of ways of making artwork from life. Scores of sounds – electronic, acoustic. Walls sprayed with all kinds of colours – dark, bright. Generations giving new life to it.
“I thought we should sit ‘round, relate our stories, friend to friend. We each know something of this place. Let’s share it, this night, face to face.”
I have, these recent years, fallen, somehow, in to writing about Bristol over and over again.
It is a song of poems – different parts in different verse throughout a night exchanging stories.
Each of us with tales ‘n layered lives to be disclosed…