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.