City

History runs, like a river, through these streets,
the Golden Boys, who revolutionised society,
and called for Free Trade, Full Employment,
demanding change, and votes for all,
we are all witnesses, but who will answer the call?

Littered out of heart,
the Sphinxes do not know the sound of one hand clapping,
young Men on Skateboards ride past,
the Memorial built to remember those who went before their time,
whilst the flame of Hope is burnt out, in a silhouette
against a darkening sky.

The Bullring is not like those
that Hemmingway turned into prose.
The Busker’s sit, three chords, a banging drum,
and the truth.

The festival is for refugees,
but not one of them is here,
in our technological world
of technology, and big screen TV,
are people really all that blind,
to what they cannot see?

On a Summer’s Day, the sound of recorded
Machine gun fire, skateboards, and children
crying to harassed parents for Ice Cream,
fill the square with life,
against a back drop of buildings and stalls,
that remind us of its fragility.

The sullen boy sits, arms folded, scowling,
and squashes the ants between his fingers and thumbs.
Blood was spilt, and the war memorial he sits by
was built so we would never forget.
Office Workers hurry past,
turning jaded red eyes to bright blue sky.
The band sings how
‘There ain’t no Sunshine’
and sometimes we wonder, if that is true.

But it isn’t, for the statue of the Golden boys is gleaming,
A monument to man’s achievements,
But now technology can make the world better,
For that is down to the people,
Who live and work and are human,
in this and every city.