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.”
Now riddle it with chaos: muddied fury lit by mob-borne flame.
“Change is the only thing. It’s the only thing there is.”
The seagulls, too: they screech in semi-reliably recorded history.
Such keen eyes, such keen resolve.
I watch her and she’s wistless as she weaves and waves again.
P’rhaps we won’t stop anymore, now there’s no space – seat or floor.
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.
Let me/it, at last, then, rise, buffeted by sound-waves.
The breeze feels like an echo of a cold too cold to bear, as the gull glides on its currents and the waves of winter light.