Standing Still on Hope Street
A lion, carved in stone on a concrete
tower, his lonely pride a heady stir of wish
and risk, corrugated windows, doors barred,
dead birds in the gutter. Passers-by once looked
up to two broken judges on the ledge below;
their eyes a slimy fuzz of moss. This building used
to be the future. Eight storeys mixed by hand,
raised together floor by floor, tiled in every shade
of Glasgow green. Daring as a Chicago skyscraper!
headlined newspapers. Dapper as a Dutch
townhouse! nodded well-travelled councillors.
Refinement! Revival of the Scottish tradition,
textbooks boasted. Now cold roars through
the redundant office space, shoots up the
shadow of the shops. The lion is a danger,
meshed and netted. No hunter can capture
his past. Today cannot be put on pause as
he waits for tomorrow to wear down his claws.
by Helen Ross
All text appears as provided by the author.